JULIAN FANE. 





C^uv^ 



JULIAN FANE 



% HUmoir. 



BY 

ROBERT LYTTON. 



" Ah > not the music of his voice alone, 
But his sweet melody of thought, which fed 
Our minds with perfect harmony, is flown ! ' 

Lay ofBragi. By the Hon. Julian Fane. 



SECOND EDITION. 



WITH A 




LONDON: 

JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET. 

1872. 
t 



LONDON 
BRADBURY, BVANS, AND CO., PRINTERS, WHITEPR1AR! 




CONTENTS. 

-*- 

CHAPTER I. 

PAGE 

Introductory. — Parentage. Battle of Busaco. Lord Bur- 
ghersh returns to England with Dispatches. His Mar- 
riage. His Spanish Beports. At the Head-quarters 
of the Allied Armies in Germany. Battle of Leipzig. 
Accompanies the Triumphal Entry of the Allies into 
Paris. Appointed Envoy to the Grand Duke of Tuscany. 
Present at the Battle of Tolentino. Signs the Conven- 
tion of Caza Lanza. Lord and Lady Burghersh return 
to Florence.— Birth of Julian Fane ..•«•! 



CHAPTER II. 

Childish Days. Intimacy between Mother and Son. School 
Days. Thames Ditton. Harrow. His father appointed 
British Minister at the Court of Berlin. Ill-health. 
Life at Berlin. Precocious Musical Faculty. Meyer- 
beer. The Diplomatic Service in 1844. Taste for Poetry. 
Heinrich Heine. Preparation for the University. At 
Oakington , 



VI 

CHAPTER III. 

PAGE 

Fellow Commoner at Trinity. Characteristics. Choice of 
Companions. The Apostles. Chancellor's Medal. Letters. 
Demeanour towards Women. Return to Berlin. Visit 
to Dublin. The Apostles at Blackwall. Last Days at 
Cambridge. Recollections of his Fellow Collegian, Mr. 
James. Gains from his College Life / . . . .15 



CHAPTER IV. 

Qualities which fitted Julian Fane for Parliamentary success 
counteracted by others of a different order. Life at 
Apethorpe. Verses descriptive of Apethorpe. Attache 
at Vienna. Life there. Early Verses. Point of view 
from which they should be regarded. Specimens. Later 
unpublished Poetry 



( HAPTER V. 

Unpublished Translations from Heinrich Heine, and Sketch 

of Heine, by Julian Fane 61 



CHAPTER VI. 

Life at Vienna from L851 to 1866. Attached to the Earl of 
clarendon's Special Mission, and present at Paris during 
the Congress of that year. Secretary of Legation at 
St. Petersburg, and life there from L856 to L868, 
Official Reports. Baron Brnnow. Secretary of Legation 
and Embassy at Vienna Erom i v - s to L865. Life at 
Vienna. Habits, occupations, characteristics . . .94 



CONTENTS. \'ll 



CHAPTER VII. 

PAGE 

" Tannhauser," and other Poems, written at Vienna. Study 
of Shakespeare's Sonnets. Writings after that model. 
Poems to his Mother 112 



CHAPTER VIII. 

Visit to Venice. Taste for old Pictures. Opinions about 
Modern Poets. Impressions of Wagner. Change of 
House. Serious illness in consequence of it. Keturn to 
England. Appointment to Paris. Marriage. Paternity. 
Retirement from his Profession. Plans for Life in 
England, Widowhood 133 



CHAPTER IX. 

Mr. Vernon Harcourt's Recollections of Julian Fane . .144 

CHAPTER X. 

Failing Health. Continued Interest in Literature and Public 
Affairs. Latest Employments. Poems ad Matrem. 
Increasing Sufferings and Isolation. Sympathy of 
Friends. Religious Belief. Designs for the Future. 
Sonnets to his Mother. His Sister's Recollections. Last 
Hours. Latest written words. The End. Tributes to 
his Memory 154 

APPENDIX 109 



JULIAN FANE. 



CHAPTER I. 

Introductory. — Parentage. Battle of Busaco. Lord Burghersh returns 
to England with Dispatches. His Marriage. His Spanish Reports. 
At the Head-quarters of the Allied Armies in Germany. Battle 
of Leipzig. Accompanies the Triumphal Entry of the Allies into 
Paris. Appointed Envoy to the Grand Duke of Tuscany. Present 
at the Battle of Tolentino. Signs the Convention of Caza Lanza. 
Lord and Lady Burghersh return to Florence. — Birth of Julian 
Fane, 

There is a small class of men endowed with remark- 
able gifts, whose superiority must yet remain always 
inadequately recorded. The evidences of it are chiefly 
in the impression which it makes upon those who have 
felt the personal influence of its possessors, and this im- 
pression is incommunicable. It is impossible, indeed, 
that such men should pass out of the world unmissecl : 
but they are like childless proprietors, who lay up nothing 
for the distant heir. Their intellectual opulence is hos- 
pitably lavished upon personal friends, and bequeathes 
to their posthumous fame a title which can only be sup- 
ported upon credit. Yet the influence of these men upon 
the society they adorn is too beneficent to be altogether 
evanescent. Their presence animates and sustains what- 



'1 JULIAN FANE, 

ever is loveliest in social life. The world's dim and dusty 
atmosphere grows golden in the light of it. Their mere 
look rebukes vulgarity. Their conversation elevates the 
lowest, and brightens the dullest, theme. Their intellec- 
tual sympathy is often the unacknowledged begetter of 
other men's intellectual labour; and in the charm of their 
companionship we are conscious of those benignant in- 
fluences which the Greeks called Graces, but which 
Christianity has converted into Charities. 

Such was the character of the man to whose memory 
these pages are dedicated. Had health and length of 
days been allotted to him, his rare intellectual and moral 
worth would doubtless have remained in evidence more 
durable than the grateful memory of friends, or this im- 
perfect record of an existence too brief for the complete 
fulfilment of its affluent promise. 

Very little, however, of all that was in him, or of all 
that came from him, survives in the few literary remains 
which are here collected. They are, indeed, but as broken 
fragments of dispersed masonry, which can suggest to 
the passing traveller no just idea of the general strength 
and symmetry of the edifice wherein they once occupied 
subordinate places. But the intrinsic value of such a 
life as Julian Fane's must be estimated by the rarity of 
iis own loveliness, and is fully expressed by its finished 
fulfilment of the iinesi type of intellectual high breeding. 
lie was, I think, the most graceful and accomplished 
gentleman of the generation he adorned; and by this 
generation, at Least, appropriate place should be reserved 
lor the memory of a man in whose character the most 
universal sympathy with all the intellectual culture of his 



INTRODUCTORY. 3 

age was united to a refinement of social form, and a per- 
fection of personal grace, which, in spite of all its intel- 
lectual culture, the age is sadly in want of. There is an 
artistry of life as well as of literature ; and the perfect 
knighthood of Sidney is no less precious to the world 
than the genius of Spenser. 

John Fane, Lord Burghersh, who, in 1841, succeeded 
to the title and estates of his father as eleventh Earl of 
Westmoreland, had in 1803 entered the army, after taking 
his D.C.L. degree as Fellow Commoner at Cambridge. 
He served on the staff of the Duke of "Wellington (then 
Sir Arthur Wellesley) from the beginning of the Penin- 
sular war till the victory of Busaco, and was sent to 
England with the news of this event by Sir Arthur 
Wellesley, who, after the battle of Talavera, had been 
created Yiscount Wellington. His health having suf- 
fered during the campaign, he did not return to Spain, 
but obtained his Lieutenant-Colonelcy whilst in England, 
and married, in 1811, Priscilla Wellesley, the third 
daughter of the third Earl of Mornington. To his 
mother, Julian was indebted for the early cultivation of 
the many graces and talents which he inherited from 
her. Before leaving Spain Lord Burghersh had, in 
obedience to the instructions of Lord Wellington, visited 
various parts of the Spanish Peninsula ; and the reports 
which he addressed from those places to the head-quarters 
of the British army were so highly approved by the 
Commander-in-Chief, that in 1813, after the expiration 
of the armistice of August (which was immediately fol- 
lowed by the accession of Austria to the alliance against 
Napoleon), Lord Burghersh was, on the recommendation 

b 2 



4 JULIAN faxi:. 

of Wellington, selected by Lord Castlereagh as Military 
Attache to the head-quarters of the Allied Annies in 

Germany, then commanded by Prince Schwartzenberg. 
His young wife accompanied him. They left England 
in September; but the difficulties of travelling were 
great, and it was only on landing at Stralsund (after a 
three weeks' sea-voyage) that they first heard of the 
Battle of Leipzig, which was fought on the 18th of 
October.* 

Lord and Lady Burgh ersh accompanied the triumphal 
entry of the Allies into Paris in 1814, and in the autumn 
of the same year Lord Burghersh was appointed British 
Minister to the Grand Duke of Tuscany. After the 
escape of Napoleon from Elba, which was followed by 
war between Austria and Naples, Lord Burghersh re- 
joined the Austrian head-quarters. He was present at 
the Battle of Tolentino, and signed the Convention of 
Gaza Lanza, which brought back the old King of Naples 
to his capital. After the return of the king from Sicily, 
Lord Burghersh resumed his post at Florence. " On 
our way back there," says his wife, in one of her letters, 
" we met at Viterbo an English messenger bringing news 
of the Battle of Waterloo." The young couple remained 
at Florence till the year 1830; and six children were 
born to them in that city, one of whom was Julian 
Henry Charles Fane, the subject of the present memoir. 

* Lord Burghersh published an account of the proceedings i I 
allied armies, which was much praised by military authorities, and 
■ en quoted by Sir W. Scott, and other historians of the campaign. 



CHAPTEE II. 

Childish Days. Intimacy between Mother and Son. School Days. 
Thames Ditton. Harrow. His father appointed British Minister 
at the Court of Berlin. Ill-health. Life at Berlin. Precocious 
Musical Faculty. Meyerbeer. The Diplomatic Service in 1844. 
Taste for Poetry. Heinrich Heine. Preparation for the Univer- 
sity. At OakiDgton. 

He was born on the 2nd October, 1827, and was only 
three years old when his parents returned to England. 
Wordsworth has ascribed the most permanent tendencies 
of his own mind to those influences of external nature 
which, mingling with the unconscious acquisitions of 
childhood, "lived along his life" through later years. 
Perhaps the temperament of Julian Fane may have been 
similarly favoured in childhood by those sweet influences 
which haunt the purple slopes of the Apennines and the 
sunny banks of the Val d'Arno. He was not destined to 
revisit Florence in after life ; but, when contemplating 
all the flower-like grace of his luxuriant nature, I have 
sometimes thought there was a felicitous fitness in the 
fact that to this fair child the gods, who loved him, should 
have allotted so fair a birthplace as " the city of flowers." 
Not many years after their return to England, Lord and 
Lady Burghersh were plunged into deep affliction by the 
loss of a beloved daughter, who died at the age of fifteen. 
Their elder boys were already at school, and their only 



r 



G JULIAN FANE. 

snrviving daughter (now Lady Rose Weigall) was still in 
the nurse's arms. The companionship of the little Julian, 
to whose education she devoted herself, then became the 
chief solace of his mother; and with her the child re- 
mained till he was eleven years old. I cannot better 
describe the peculiar character of their intercourse at this 
period than by the touching words in which she herself 
has alluded to it. 

" His tender devotion to me during that time," she 
says, " and the feeling and good sense he showed, were 
much beyond his years. They laid the foundation of that 
intense love and perfect confidence which bound us 
together ever after. Apart from filial and maternal 
affection, we were the closest and most trusted friends 
to each other. Even his marriage did not abate in the 
least this love and confidence." The education of Julian's 
two brothers, who had chosen the army for their profes- 
sion, was more directly under the superintendence of their 
father. It was the wish of Lord Burghersh that his 
youngest son should be educated at Harrow and Cam- 
bridge ; but all other arrangements for the boy's education 
he left, with well justified confidence, to the judgment of 
his wile. This accomplished woman was already the 
friend and correspondent of many of the most eminent 
men in Europe. She was herself a good musician, and a 
painter whose power of execution and knowledge of art 
were considerably beyond those of a mere dilettante. The 

daily companionship of SUCh a mother must have been 

far more instructive than any ordinary 'schooling' to the 

child; who doubt less derived from it that intense distaste 

of all vulgar and unintelligent pleasures, and that 



SCHOOL-DAYS. 7 

instinctive appreciation of intellectual and moral beauty, 
which gave select distinction to the character of his after- 
life. 

The regular school-days came, however, and in the 
year 1838 the little Julian was sent to a private establish- 
ment at Thames Ditton. He was then in his eleventh 
year; and he remained at Thames Ditton till 1841, when 
he commenced at Harrow the customary course of an 
English boy's education. 

Meanwhile, the Whigs had been in office, and Lord 
Burghersh on the shelf. But on the return of the Tories 
to power Lord Burghersh re-entered the foreign service 
as British Minister at the Court of Berlin ; to which post 
he was appointed by Lord Aberdeen in 1841. Shortly 
afterwards his son Julian, in consequence of a severe 
fever which had greatly weakened a frame already delicate, 
was obliged to leave Harrow. He rejoined his parents at 
Berlin ; and the five years passed with them in the 
Prussian capital constituted one of the most important 
educational periods of his life. 

Berlin was, at that time, the residence and the rendez- 
vous of an unusual number of distinguished men. To a 
thoroughly sociable temperament, and the exquisite 
amiability of perfect high-breeding, Lord and Lady 
Burghersh united a keen taste for intellectual refine- 
ment. Lord Burghersh was himself an enthusiastic 
musician. His wife was a woman whose society was as 
delightful to artists and men of letters as to statesmen 
and men of the world. In their hands the hotel of the 
British Legation at Berlin became a sort of continental 
Holland House, where Genius and Beauty, Science and 



8 JULIAN FANE. 

Fashion, Literature and Politics, could meet each other 
with a hearty reciprocal welcome. 

Among the daily habitues of this agreeable house were 
Alexander A^on Humboldt, whose habit it was to dine 
there every Sunday; Eauch the sculptor; Meyerbeer, 
whose conversation was as brilliant as his music ; Felix 
Mendelssohn; and the painters Begas, Hensel, and 
Magnus. To the honour of the Prussian Court be it 
said that all these illustrious men were also among the 
most frequent and honoured guests of the late king. 

A letter in which their kindhearted and accomplished 
hostess has favoured me with some of her personal remi- 
niscences, makes touching reference to this little group 
of eminent persons. "They are all gone," she writes, 
" and I know not if their equals now exist ! Eauch, the 
sculptor, was the perfect model of a fine old grand 
seigneur, both in look and manner; though born in a 
very humble position. With Humboldt, Meyerbeer, and 
Eauch, I kept up correspondence as long as they lived. 
All knew and appreciated the charm, the talents, and the 
beauty of the dear boy who was then my pride and joy. 
Meyerbeer especially adored him; and admired his 
singular musical talent, which, from his childhood, was 
remarkable. As a child, indeed, his passion for music 
was BO great that 1 feared it might, if encouraged, inter- 
fere with his general education, and I would not allow 
him any music lessons, lie literally never learned even 
the notes of music; which he much regretted in after- 
life. Yet, ignorani as he was of all the rules of the art, 
his exquisite ear supplied the deficiency. AVhilst yet 
quite a boy, he once played on the pianoforte parts of a 



INSTINCT FOE MUSIC. 9 

new opera of Meyerbeer's which he had only heard the 
night before. Yet he played them so correctly that 
Meyerbeer, who was present, and who had not allowed 
any part of his score to be seen, inquired, in great agita- 
tion, ' "Who can have given him the music 1 ' and would 
not believe that he played it only from memory, after one 
hearing." 

His musical instinct was indeed extraordinary ; and to 
it was probably attributable his keen susceptibility to 
beauty of sound in verbal expression, although both 
music and poetry were rather the accomplishments than 
the occupations of his after-life. Two of his musical 
compositions will be found in an appendix to this Volume. 
I am, myself, no competent judge of such compositions. 
But I doubt if those who have not heard them played 
and sung by himself, can fully realize the effect which 
they once derived from 

" The touch of a vanished hand, 
And the sound of a voice that is still." 

For, in all that was sung or said by him who wrote them, 
there was a peculiar and quite indescribable charm which 
seemed to flow directly from the visible presence of the 
man himself. 

At the time when Julian Fane entered the diplomatic 
service, it was the custom for our Ministers and Ambas- 
sadors abroad to attach, if they pleased, to their Embassies 
and Missions, young men who were personally known to 
them, and whom they thought likely to prove useful or 
agreeable members of their Staff. These appointments 
were not, of course, made directly by the Ministers and 



10 JULIAN FANE. 

Ambassadors themselves, but by the Secretary of State 
for Foreign A (lairs, on the recommendation of the 
.Ministers and Ambassadors; or, to speak with strict 
accuracy, by the Crown on the recommendation submitted 
to it by the Secretary of State, at the request of the 
Ministers and Ambassadors. 

The class of persons thus admitted to subordinate em- 
ployment in the foreign representative service of the 
Crown, was practically limited to the two categories of 
which it ought, as a general rule, to be composed : young 
men of social station and independent means, or young 
men of more or less tested ability and marked promise. 
The first fulfilled adequately the ornamental, the second 
the operative, functions of a profession which combines 
the duties of national representation with those of inter- 
national negociation ; and of both the system had no 
higher type than it was to find in Julian Fane. Whether 
the like success will attend the modes of selection more 
recently adopted remains to be seen. Julian would un- 
doubtedly have passed with ease and distinction any 
competitive examination, for he was, from childhood, a 
good linguist, and a rapid as well as an accurate reader. 
But it may be doubted if such examinations could have 
either tested or certificated the peculiar qualifications he 
ased for success in diplomacy — the mingled sweet- 
and dignity of his wondrous social charm, his quick 
and just appreciation of character, his precocious know- 
Ledge of Life, his pleasant wit and Large good humour, his 
rapidity and accuracy of generalisation, his persuasive 
power of exposil ion. 

It was in (lie year in 1 1 he was thus officially attached 



HEINRICH HEINE. 11 

to his father's Mission at Berlin ; and he was then only 
seventeen years of age. It is easy to imagine the stimu- 
lating effect of daily intercourse with such a society as I 
have described upon the intelligence of a naturally quick- 
witted and precocious boy. But there is a name more 
conspicuous than any of those yet recorded which must 
now be mentioned in connection with the intellectual im- 
pressions at least indirectly referable to this period of his 
life, though its positive influence may probably date 
somewhat later. 

In the German literature of the Restoration there is 
little to admire. The mantle of Goethe had not fallen 
upon any of his numerous disciples. The romantic 
school had, on the whole, failed in the mission which at 
first it seemed destined to fulfil. The reaction against 
Eighty-nine had converted patriotism into the instru- 
ment of despotism. The strong sarcastic yoice of 
Brentano (Bettina's brother) was silent in a cloister. 
Gorres had suffered due penance for the revolutionary 
vagaries of his youth. Pedantry and poltroonery had 
their own way. That great war which rescued from the 
first French Empire the international independence of 
Europe, had bequeathed no political liberties to the 
populations of Germany, whose victory, like the honey 
of Virgil's bees, was profitable only to their proprietors. 
But in 1825 the publication of the first volume of the 
" Reisebilder " revolutionized the whole literature of 
Germany, and placed it henceforth under the brilliant 
popular dictatorship of Heinrich Heine. 

About five years subsequent to the appointment of 
Lord Burghersh to the Mission at Florence, that is to 



12 JULIAN FANE. 

say, in the year which witnessed, in England, the Cato 
Street Conspiracy and the imprisonment of Hunt, and, in 
France, the first great Parliamentary triumph of the 
French Liberals, — there happened to be living at Bonn 
a young law student, who was the son of Jewish parents 
and the pupil of Franciscan friars. From Bonn he 
migrated to Gottingen, and shortly afterwards appeared 
at Berlin as the enthusiastic disciple of Hegel. There 
he was at once recognized as a young man of precocious 
culture, and peculiar genius, by Franz Bopp the 
philologist, Chamisso the poet, Varnhagen von Ense, and 
one or two other distinguished men. About this time 
he unsuccessfully attempted to obtain for his peculiar 
genius a wider recognition by the publication of some 
dramatic poems, which all the splendour of his subsequent 
reputation has not yet redeemed from the oblivion to 
which they were immediately consigned by the public. 
Possibly, his peculiar genius had not found in these 
poems its peculiar form. This form, however, it did 
triumphantly find in the " Beisebilder." And, as I have 
said, in the year 1825 the publication of that inimitable 
book revealed to Germany, once for all and once for ever, 
the existence of by far the greatest poet she has produced 
from Goethe to the present day. The " Reisebilder " 
was succeeded quickly by the " Buch der Leider," and a 
rapid torrent of the intensest lyric song. 

Throughout Germany, therefore, the disturbing, almost 
bewildering, influence of Heine was in all its freshest 
and fullest activity about the time when Julian Fane, 
still a mere lad, was living at Berlin. He did not him- 
self at that time begin the study of those writings, but 



RETURN TO ENGLAND. 13 

an early acquired and accurate knowledge of German 
(that invaluable implement of culture) enabled him not 
long after to read them in their original language ; and, 
although his naturally robust character instinctively 
rejected all that was dangerously perverse in Heine's 
influence, the impression that was made upon him by his 
introduction into that Classische Walpurgimacht, which 
Goethe first imagined on the plains of Pharsalia and 
the heights of Peneius, and which Heine subsequently 
realized and ruled, appears to have remained throughout 
the whole of his after life. His regular study of the 
poems began with his first settled residence at Vienna, in 
1851 ; and the latest work on which he was engaged, 
when stricken down by the painful malady that pre- 
maturely terminated his existence, was a critical bio- 
graphy of the poet himself. Some of his smaller pieces 
he had in the meanwhile, and at various times, translated 
into English verse ; and these translations, which (with 
his habitual dislike of publication) he printed only for 
private circulation, have been noticed in the " Edinburgh 
Review" by Lord Houghton, whose own admirable 
success in the same most difficult task gives particular 
interest and authority to his opinion of all similar under- 
takings. 

Heine's future translator could not, however, remain 
much longer in the capital of Hegel, that first of Heine's 
"Gods" who afterwards figured "in exile." He was 
approaching the age of nineteen ; and in 1846 he re- 
turned to England to prepare himself for the University, 
under the tuition of the Eev. Mr. Whitaker, at Oaking- 
ton. The best part of a year was passed here ; and his 



14 JULIAN taxi;. 

exchange of the luxury and idleness of Berlin for the 

simplicity and study of this quiet English parsonage, 
was accounted always by Julian as one of the beneficent 

occurrences of his life. To its influence on him at a 
critical time, lie attributed much of what was best in his 
Later life ; his only regret was that it had not been of 
earlier date and longer duration ; and some of his latest 
instructions for the education of his own children were 
the fruit of this experience. In the course of the follow- 
ing year he matriculated, as Fellow T Commoner, at Trinity 
College, Cambridge. 



CHAPTER III. 

Fellow Commoner at Trinity. Characteristics. Choice of Companions. 
The x\postles. Chancellor's Medal. Letters. Demeanour 
towards Women. Return to Berlin. Visit to Dublin. The 
Apostles at Blackball. Last Days at Cambridge. Recollections 
of his Fellow Collegian, Mr. James. Gains from his College 
Life. 

" I think," says Lord Houghton, in a letter to the 
present writer, " that Julian Fane made the most im- 
pression on me when he was at Cambridge. I used to 
go up there often to see my old playfellows, and the 
natural, easy way he fell into his place among them, after 
his independent and luxurious life at Berlin, struck me 
as very estimable." The change from Berlin to Cam- 
bridge was, indeed, a great one. But the luxury which 
Julian Fane had learned from his Berlin experiences to 
appreciate most, was the luxury of intellectual society ; 
and he commenced his University life with the inesti- 
mable advantage of a mind already too cultivated to find 
any attraction in those coarse and unintelligent amuse- 
ments which often waste the time and purse of under- 
graduates, in whose educational career there is no inter- 
position between the public school and the University. 

" Mr. Fane was entered at Trinity as one of my pupils,'.' 
writes Dr. Thompson, the present master of Trinity. 
" I was then senior tutor of the College, in 1847 ; and he 



16 JULIAN FANE. 

began to reside in the October of that year. Though I 
believe he was not much older than the average of under- 
graduates, Mr. Fane had seen much more of the world, 
and was far more generally, accomplished than the 
majority of his contemporaries. I never had a pupil who 
impressed me at a first interview more favourably ; 
and I look back with unmixed pleasure on the whole 
period of our intercourse as friends rather than tutor 
and pupil. He had a fine and catholic taste in literature, 
and his associates were, for the most part, men like-minded 
with himself; not so much hard University students, 
though there were such among the number, as young 
men of active and inquiring (and, in some cases, really 
original) minds. Nothing was more remarkable in Mr. 
Fane than his marked preference for intellectual merit 
over rank and position in society. One of his most 
intimate friends was a sizar, — a clever and cultivated 
person ; and, with one exception, I do not remember that 
he was intimate with any of the then fellow-commoners 
and noblemen." 

This love of intellectual society, combined with a rare 
capacity for commanding the sympathy of such society, 
soon rendered Julian Fane one of the most beloved and 
brilliant members of a curious social institution, which 
may claim the merit of having united in life-long 
friendship an extraordinarily large number of successful 
and remarkable men. In the year 1820 a certain 
number of Cambridge undergraduates, who were attracted 
U) each other by a kindred taste for literature, and a 
common reverence for Tree inquiry (not then as generally 
tolerated as it is now), founded amongst themselves at 



A DISTINGUISHED SOCIETY. 17 

St. John's College a small society for weekly essay and 
discussion. It called itself a conversazione society. 
But, owing to the fact that the number of its resident 
members (undergraduates and bachelors of arts) was 
limited to twelve, it soon became known as the Society 
of the Cambridge Apostles : a name which was at first 
given to it, says one of them, in derision. Apostles of 
intellectual freedom in the Halls of Authority, its 
members might, however, fairly consider themselves. 
Free discussion, excluding no subject of intellectual 
interest, was the object and the occupation of their 
weekly gatherings. To ensure this freedom, the annals 
of the Society have been kept secret ; but it was the 
subject of public allusion many years ago by a very dis- 
tinguished man who was himself a member of it. In 
the year 1834, during the controversy which then raged 
on the question of admitting Dissenters to University 
degrees, Mr. Goulburn and others having expressed in 
Parliament much fear of the mischievous effects of 
theological controversy amongst undergraduates, Thirl- 
wall scouted their alarm by a reference to the Cambridge 
Apostles. "You may be alarmed," said the future 
Bishop of St. David's, " when I inform you that there 
has long existed in this place a society of young men, 
— limited, indeed, in number, but continually receiving 
new members to supply its vacancies, and selecting 
them in preference among the youngest, — in which all 
subjects of the highest interest, without any exclusion 
of those connected with religion, are discussed with the 
most perfect freedom. But, if this fact is new to you, 
let me instantly dispel any apprehension it may excite, 



18 JULIAN FANE. 

by assuring you that the members of this Society for 
the most part have been, and are, among the choicest 
ornaments of the University : that some are now 
amongst the ornaments of the Church : and that, so far 
from having had their affections embittered, or their 
friendships torn and lacerated, their union has been one 
rather of brothers than of friends." 

Undoubtedly this sentiment of brotherhood is a very 
noticeable quality of Cambridge Apostleship. The 
members of the Society have been through life the 
enthusiastic and often the influential champions of each 
other's claim to public notice ; and the effect upon its 
members has been thus not only stimulating to their 
intelligence in youth, but also advantageous to their 
success in manhood. The man of genius who enters 
the great battle-field of life a solitary soldier, must 
expect to find every man's hand against him. He 
comes into the field without followers, without comrades, 
without a leader or a camp. If he is worsted in the 
combat he will be shot like a freeshooter for lack of 
a recognized uniform, and refused the conventional 
courtesies of civilized warfare. To begin life as one 
among a band of clever young men, who sincerely 
admire themselves and each other, and are prepared, 
each of them, to recognize in the success of a comrade 
flattering evidence of their personal sagacity, as well 
as an additional triumph to their collective superiority, 
cannot but bean immense practical advantage to those 
who are so fortunate as to possess it. From this point 
of view the Cambridge Apostles may be regarded, like 
Balzac's Gonseil de Trei:c, as a sort of mutual praise- 



PERSONAL TEAITS. 19 

society. But absolute mediocrity cannot puff itself into 
the dimensions of genius ; certainly a membership of 
such a society was a genuine order of merit ; and I 
have been assured by many of his fellow Apostles 
that Julian Fane was the life and soul of their pleasant 
gatherings. His general culture was probably larger 
than that of most of his College contemporaries. In 
knowledge and experience of the world he was certainly 
their superior. His accurate memory and ready wit 
rendered immediately available for conversational effect 
the whole of his mental furniture ; and from an early 
observation of mankind he had acquired the faculty 
which gives appropriate application to the study of 
books. His intellectual capital was all in ready money ; 
or so invested that it could be drawn out at a moment's 
notice, to meet the most unexpected liability. This 
gave him, in discussion, an easy advantage over more 
heavily armed antagonists, whose reserve forces could 
not be thrown with equal rapidity upon the immediate 
point of attack. His own intellectual resources were 
indeed so well disciplined that they arranged themselves 
without confusion in logical line of battle at the first 
word of command. No man was ever less cursed with 
the esprit clu has de Vescalier. In physical frame he was 
considerably above the average stature. Notwithstand- 
ing the angularity which great thinness gave to his 
bodily framework, all its movements and gestures were 
as graceful as those of a young pinetree marching to 
the music of Orpheus. The genial effect of his lively 
intelligence was greatly increased by a singularly ex- 
pressive flexibility of countenance, a musical and finely 

c 2 



20 JULIAN FANE. 

modulated voice, and a rare distinction of attitude and 
gait. I doubt if any man, with the exception of 
Lablache, was ever so consummate an artist in the 
management of his facial muscles. I have seen him 
imitate the late Lord Brougham, not only with a 
marvellous exactitude of voice and gesture, but also 
with an instantaneous transformation of feature which 
was absolutely bewildering. His extraordinary mimetic 
power may be imagined from the fact that he could, 
without the aid of voice or action, and solely by a rapid 
variation of physiognomy, conjure up before the eyes 
of the most unimpressionable spectator the whole 
pageant and progress of a thunderstorm. I have often 
watched him perform this tour cle force, and never 
without seeming to see before me, with unmistakable 
distinctness, the hovering transit of light and shadow 
over some calm pastoral landscape on a summer's noon ; 
then, the gradually gathering darkness in the heaven 
above — the sultry suspense of Nature's stifled pulse — 
the sudden flash — the sportive bickering play of the 
lightning — the boisterous descent of the rain — the slow 
subsidence of all the celestial tumult ; the returning 
sunlight and blue air ; the broad repose and steady 
gladness of the renovated fields, with their tinkling 
flocks, and rainy flowers. The capacity of producing, 
at will, such effects as these by the mere working of 
a countenance which Nature had carved in the calmest 
classic outlines, could only have resulted from a very 
rare correspondence between the intellectual and physical 
faculties j and it is no slight moral merit in the pos- 
>r of such gifts, that he rarely exercised them at all, 



COLLEGE FRIENDS. 21 

and never for the purpose of ungenerously ridiculing his 
fellow creatures. 

" You will be the most unpopular man here," said 
the present Lord Derby (who was somewhat his senior) 
to Julian Fane, on the latter's arrival at Cambridge. 

"Why so?" 

" Because you are so tall that you will be always 
looking down on your acquaintances." 

" On the contrary ; I shall certainly be the most 
influential man at Trinity, because my acquaintances 
will be always looking up to me." 

He was never without a pleasant and appropriate 
answer to the challenge of the passing moment. " We 
were undergraduates together at Trinity College, 
Cambridge," says Mr. Watson, one of the ablest of his 
College contemporaries, "and I used frequently to meet 
him in the society of friends common to us both, who 
were more intimate with him than I was. I can recal, 
even after an interval of twenty years, the effect pro- 
duced upon us all by his bright and genial presence. 
I certainly never knew at that time, nor do I think I 
have ever since met with, any man whose social 
qualities (understanding the term in its lest sense) were 
so distinguished as his. He possessed a brilliant wit, 
a keen sense of humour, and an unrivalled gracefulness 
of manner and expression. Thus he was never at a loss 
for a reply, even amongst the readiest. But his repartees 
were never sullied by ill-nature, and never degenerated 
into sarcasm. Nor did he, in his most playful sallies, 
forget what was due to his own self-respect, or wound 
the self-esteem of other men." 



22 JULIAN PANE. 

These words, as I transcribe them, recal to my mind 
a somewhat amusing instance of Julian Fane's con- 
versational readiness, which I had the opportunity of 
appreciating when he and I were colleagues at Vienna. 
We happened to be dining together with Baron Anselm 
Rothschild. One of our fellow guests, an English 
Member of Parliament, and a veteran Goliath of that 
Liberal Philistia which holds dominion in the north of 
England, was somewhat dogmatically impressing upon 
our minds the urgent necessity of Parliamentary Eeform. 
The conversation subsequently turned upon the political 
institutions of Austria, and in criticizing the then 
newly-established Parliamentary system in that Empire, 

Mr. exclaimed, " Sir, you cannot compare this 

Eeichsrath with the British Parliament. The British 
Parliament is the most perfect political institution 
which the world has yet witnessed. It faithfully and 
forcibly represents all the political intelligence, all the 
opinions, all the interests, of the British Empire." 

" Ah, Mr. ," said Julian Fane, " you have quite 

convinced us ! Who could resist such an argument 
against Reform ? " The table was in a roar. 

But to return to the writer who has favoured me 
with his personal reminiscences of Julian Fane at 
Cambridge, and who was not only an Apostle, but a 
Fellow of Trinity, and the Second Wrangler of his year. 
"Great as were Fane's social gifts," Mr, Watson con- 
tinues, kt bhey by no means represented the whole of his 
remarkable and versatile nature. His tastes were emi- 
nently intellectual, and his companions were the hard 
readers and hard thinkers among' his contemporaries. 



TRUE CHARITY. 23 

For English poetry, indeed, he seemed to have a perfect 
passion; and the only occasion on which I ever re- 
member to have seen his equanimity disturbed was 
when an attempt was made by some mischievous com- 
panions to goad him out of his habitual self-possession 
by unfair and flippant criticism on the work of a favourite 
author. Finally, what impressed me more than all was 
the genuine and hearty goodness of his disposition. 
Though petted by society, possessing a large and varied 
acquaintance with life in all its phases, and subjected 
from an early age to influences which would have pro- 
duced, in an ordinary nature, a mere llase man of the 
world, there was not a trace of hardness or cynicism to 
be found in him. He had very wide sympathies, ever 
ready to be enlisted in any subject, however remote 
from his own special tastes, and in any persons, what- 
ever their pursuits, provided only they were good and 
generous. I believe that many poor students (some 
perhaps who have since raised themselves by their efforts, 
and some destined to lifelong obscurity) will remember 
the charm of his cheering society, and retain a grateful 
recollection of the interest he manifested in their 
progress, and his hearty unaffected solicitude for their 
success." 

In confirmation of Mr. Watson's testimony to the 
" genuine and hearty goodness of Julian Fane's dis- 
position," I might mention many acts of his life which 
have come within my own experience. He was not of 
those whose right hand is a babbler to their left. But 
one of the most active and inexhaustible qualities of his 
nature was its unbounded benevolence : charity, I would 



24 JULIAN FANE. 

say, if that word were not liable to a conventional con- 
struction which, though perfectly respectable, is very 
imperfectly christian. Certainly, however, no man ever 
preserved pure, in the midst of a necessarily worldly life, 
so deep a well-spring of that genuine christian charity 
which springs not from the intellect but the heart, not 
from duty but from grace, and without whose divine 
sympathy benevolence is barren and protection pitiless. 
He very seldom would allow his name to appear in the 
subscription list of any charity, but he subscribed anony- 
mously to many ; wherever any votes, or other, patronage, 
were incident to such subscriptions, he was always 
scrupulously conscientious in the disposal of them ; and 
one of the last acts of his life affords characteristic 
illustration of the spontaneous loving kindness which 
animated the whole course of it. In the course of the 
year which preceded his death he observed in the Times 
an advertisement containing an appeal from " A. L." to 
some other initials, which implored pity for the dreadful 
condition of one absolutely reduced to want and despair. 
It ended with these words : " For God's sake, and for 
the remembrance of past happiness, gone for ever, send 
me the means to leave this dreadful town." His quick 
intuitive sympathy guessed at once the whole sad story. 
He immediately forwarded to the address given in the 
newspaper a ten-pound note, with the request that it 
might be acknowledged in the Times to " B. C." The 
acknowledgment was made in these words : 

" A broken-hearted mother and her child acknowledge 
with dee]) gratitude, &c., &c." 

Julian Fane did not compete for honours at Cambridge. 



UNIVERSITY PRIZE POEM. 25 

He was at no time of his life an idle man ; but he was 
always a desultory reader rather than a hard student. 
The only University distinction which he sought to 
obtain (he had gained a College prize for a prose essay 
the year before) was the Chancellor's Medal, and this he 
won by a prize poem on the death of the Queen Dowager. 
This poem, " On the Death of Queen Adelaide," was 
says Dr. Thompson, " remarkable for its Miltonic 
rhythm. It was a designed imitation of the Lycidas, 
and in many respects a poem of great promise, and 
above the average of such compositions. Dr. Whewell, 
a good Miltonic scholar, was, I remember, much 
struck by the skill with which the metre was 
managed." 

Perhaps all that could be said for the poem, is thus 
said fairly enough. Truth of feeling and originality of 
utterance could hardly be looked for in it, since all 
evidence of these qualities is almost necessarily excluded 
by the imposed conditions of such a task as the applica- 
tion of Miltonic rhythm to an elegy on such an event. 
But, assuming that the object of these exercises (like 
that of modern Latin and Greek verses) is to display 
familiarity with the style of some great original poet, by 
closely imitating his peculiar cadences, and copying his 
most characteristic expressions, then it must, I think, be 
admitted that this particular prize poem on the death of 
Queen Adelaide is a master piece of ingenious artifi- 
ciality } and written more unmistakably " after the 
manner of Master John Milton" than Howe's Tragedy of 
" Jane Shore " is " writ," as he informs us, " after the 
manner of Master William Shakespeare." 



26 JULIAN FANE. 

The poem opens with an invocation to Melpomene to 
descend, 

" From fount Castalian and the Delphic steep," 

and " in melting melodies to weep " a death which 
" shall not lack some sad melodious tear." 
In vain, however, 

" the tears of Evening fall, 
In vain the early breezes, as they sweep 
Through the dark woodland, sigh ; and from the spray 
Trilling their matins sweet the wild birds call ; 
For she no more upon the dawning day, 

Listening their joyous lay, 
Shan bend her wistful eyes for ever closed ; 
Closed in the night of death's long slumber deep, 
But angels wake to guard her dreamless sleep." 

Peace, Faith, Hope, Devotion, Love and Wisdom, then 
appear in celebration of the virtues of the estimable lady, 
who is described as a shepherdess, followed by her "few 
faithful sheep " who hear her voice 

" no more, 
Nor list her footfall on- the path before 
Climbing the height of Virtue's rugged steep.' ' 

The " Guardian spirits of the Isle," and their atten- 
dant " Nymphs," are next called upon to explain where 
they were " when wan-eyed Grief was born," and allowed 
to darken the sunshine on the happy face of the departed 
Queen Consort. But, before they can reply, the Elegist 
truly observes that the inquiry is useless, since they 
could have done nothing to avert her fate, for 



ON THE QUEEN DOWAGER'S DEATH. 27 

" From on high, proceeds the dread command, 
And dire Necessity, with equal hand, 
Slow, as she moves, dispassionate and stern, 
Alike unto the gentle and the proud, 
Scatters the lot from her capacious urn." 

The fallacious character of earthly grandeur is then 
deplored and illustrated by the fact that 

" Innocent sleep, that loves the shadowy spot 
By the lulled streamlet of the valley, flies 
The sounding palace for the peaceful cot." 

After which Echo rises " from her aery shell, by Werra's 
silvery wave." 

" Next, Father Thames, as with due dirges low 
The decent pomp along his banks was led, 
Rose from the stream, and clasp 'd his urn, and said : 
' Thee first my waters welcomed ; thee the bride 
Of royal Clarence, foster' d on the main, 
Whom now, sweet Queen, thou comest with fit train 
Once more to find, — sleep softly by his side. 
Sleep : at thine ear my limpid waters flow, 
And the voiced waves make music as they glide/ 
Last reverend Camus, as he footed slow, 
Heard the far echoes mourn, and from the tide 
Which fair reflects his G-ranta's thoughtful brow, 
Uprose, and spake," &c. 

Finally, " Albion weeps no more," but 

" As Memory haunts her sovereign's tomb, 
She to the throne uplifts her happy face ; 
There still she views the heavenly Virtues bloom, 
And sweet Religion blossom in her place." 

All this paraphernalia of Pagan mythology, and geo- 
graphical personifications, marched out to the roll of 



28 JULIAN FANE. 

Miltonic music in honour of the obsequies of the poor 
amiable Queen, is rather too much of labour misapplied 
and wasted. But if the boyish exercise contains no 
direct evidence of original poetic faculty, be it remem- 
bered that all possibility of such evidence was a priori 
strictly excluded by the prescribed conditions of it. No 
one who has ever wasted time in the perusal of Univer- 
sity prize poems can fail to agree with Dr. Thompson 
that its merits are very much " above the average of 
such compositions." Certainly it displays the possession 
of a highly cultivated ear, a trained faculty of composi- 
tion, a great knowledge and appreciation of Miltonic 
verse, a keen perception of the particular effects which 
are pleasing in the eyes of academic judges, and a very 
skilful subordination of all means to that end. 

There are other and higher qualities, however, more 
useful throughout life to their possessor, of which this 
mere poem is a proof. Those qualities are the patience 
and modest self-confidence manifest in the fact that the 
skill displayed by it, and the success achieved, represent 
its writer's second attempt to win the Chancellor's 
Medal. The want of success that attended his first is 
very good-humouredly referred to in a letter to his friend 
Henry James, from which, however, I will take only the 
closing lines : 

" I think I shall stop here another week: I want to 
see Thompson, who will be up then. My affection for 
him grows with time, I pray you very earnestly, write 
to me soon. I am all alone, the glory of the town, the 
only Fellow Commoner in Cambridge. I am not bored, 
however, because 1 am engaged — on what? I will tell 



A PUBLISHED VOLUME. 29 

you in my next : but I like letters, particularly from 
Cheltenham." 

It was probably on some poetic composition that he 
was engaged ; for most of the contents of a small volume 
of verse, which he published shortly afterwards, appear 
to have been written about this time. These verses are, 
for the most part, merely the melodious expression of 
that poetic temperament which, before circumstances 
have yet determined the object and character of their 
ambition, is the most common indication of genius in 
the boyhood of men of various accomplishments. They 
must hardly be regarded as the utterances of a spirit 
exclusively consecrated to the priesthood of song, and 
ambitious of the highest rank in the hierarchy. But no 
image of Julian Fane would be complete if it failed to 
illustrate the opulent manysidedness of him, in which 
such verses find their appropriate value. Poets, states- 
men, orators, and thinkers there have been, and will be 
again, whose attainments in the special department of 
each could never, perhaps, have been equalled by him, 
even had he devoted to that exclusive development of any 
one of his many and great talents the concentrated 
energies of a life to which the fragility of his constitution 
denied longevity, whilst the favour of Fortune absolved 
it from that necessity of definite labour which gives 
motive power to latent capacity. But I never met 
before, and have no hope to meet again, a man in whom 
statesmen, poets, and orators could immediately recog- 
nize so many and such high potentialities of worthy 
achievement in their own departments of intellectual 
activity : and I doubt if it be possible to select from the 



30 JULIAN FANE. 

boyish versification of any man whose name is not re- 
corded amongst those of acknowledged poets, a specimen 
of verse more chastened in expression, or more carefully 
completed in form, than the following — 

SONNET 

TO A CANARY BIRD, TRAINED TO DRAW SEED AND WATER FROM 
A GLASS WELL SUSPENDED TO ITS CAGE. 

" Thou shouldst be carolling thy Maker's praise, 
Poor bird ! now fetter'd, and here set to draw, 
With graceless toil of beak and added claw, 

The meagre food that scarce thy want allays ! 

And this — to gratify the gloating gaze 
Of fools, w r ho value Nature not a straw, 
But know to prize the infraction of her law 

And hard perversion of her creature's ways ! 

Thee the wild woods await, in leaves attired, 
Where notes of liquid utterance should engage 

Thy bill, that now wuth pain scant forage earns ; 

So art thou like that bard who, God-inspired 
To charm the world with song, was set to gauge 

Beer-barrels for his bread — half-famish'd Burns ! " 

The echo of Miltonic studies lingers very gracefully 
along this pretty sonnet. A note of more genuine and 
spontaneous sentiment is occasionally also sounded by 
some of the love-poems in the little volume from which I 
extract it, and a letter written at this time to Mr. James 
makes sportive allusion to the boyish sentiment which 
probably inspired them. This kind of boyish sentiment 
is, perhaps, too vague and evanescent to deserve the 
name of love ; although the tenderness and purity of its 
transient influence deserve a better name than caprice. 
It is only to certain rich natures that such emotions 



DEMEANOUR TOWARDS WOMEN. 31 

come in boyhood; and in none but the most happily 
constituted dispositions do they come and go with only 
good effect upon the character in after life ; like those 
light mists which are drawn forth at dawn by the warm 
temperature of some fine and fertile climate, and destined, 
when they disperse in rain or dew, to fructify the soil 
they spring from. Nothing was more noticeable in the 
maturity of Julian's character than the sincerity and 
delicacy of all its emotional manifestations. In his inter- 
course with women, he united to an almost boyish en- 
thusiasm, a manly chivalry of sentiment, and grave 
tenderness of gentle power, which found exquisite ex- 
pression in the charming courtesy of his demeanour. 
Deferential, without timidity, and cordial, without fami- 
liarity, there was always, in his manner towards them, 
an indirect, unuttered, homage to the highest preroga- 
tives of their sex, combined with an equally indirect 
indication of the reserved force of his own, which must, 
I think, have been singularly flattering and attractive. 
Like all men whose strength of character is of refined 
fibre, he had in his temperament something of the 
heroically feminine quality; and this was felicitously 
reflected in the mingled delicacy and power of his 
physical frame and habitual gesture. 

In the year 1848 he lost his eldest brother, and on the 
31st of May in that year he writes again to his Mend 
Henry James : u I arrived in town on Friday night, just 
in time to see almost the last hour of consciousness of my 
poor dear brother. I watched his bedside till Monday 
night, when, at ten o'clock, he died in my arms — tran- 
quilly and effortless. The only consolation I can have 



32 JULIAN FANE. 

under the present circumstances is afforded me by the 
reflection that I tended him in his last hours, and that 
his latest breath was drawn when I was with him. I 
shall not return to Cambridge for some time. I may 
possibly go down there for a fortnight after you are all 
gone, in order that I may save my term. I shall be very 
happy if you can find time to write me a line ; and I 
hope, if I am in London when you pass through, that 
you will not forget to look up your old friend. I am 
anxious to know how your reading goes on, and if you 
are sanguine about your examination. * * * I am 
overwhelmed with the most melancholy business— all the 
sad offices of which a brother's death constitutes one the 
discharger. 

" Good-bye, my dear James, 
" Yours very much, 

" Julian Fane. 
" I am not at all well myself." 

In the summer of the same year he writes to the same 
friend : 

" I have in view the writing of a large — not bulky, but 
serious poem. I can hardly as yet give you any idea of 
its shape, since it has not yet sufficiently worked itself out 
in my own mind, but it is to treat largely of politics in a 
metaphorical form ; to tone*]] upon the philosophy suited to 
the present age; to advocate a certain system of reform 
in society ; to recognize the Spirit of the Age, separating 
the spurious cant which is prevalent concerning it from the 
indubitable truth of its existence, and to endeavour to 
point out the real course of action which by its voice, now 



WORK IN PROSPECT. 33 

echoed throughout Europe, it directs mankind to pursue. 
I meant to have begun immediately this effort, but I 
now wish to write first a poem in blank verse on a pretty 
and touching Scotch tale, which I have long had in my 
mind's eye." 

The Scotch tale seems to have remained unwritten. 
I can find no trace of it amongst his papers, and am sorry 
that nothing came of it ; but any interruption of time 
and thought must have been providential if it saved him 
from further waste of either on the more ambitious design 
of which also no trace remains. 

An illness in the spring of 1849, by which he lost a 
term, prevented him from taking his Fellow Commoner's 
degree as M.A. until the year 1850. But in the mean- 
while he passed the Christmas vacation at Berlin, doing 
some occasional work at the Mission to which he was 
already attached : and thence he writes to his friend 
Henry James on the 4th of January, 1849, about the 
difficulties he has experienced in ascertaining " what are 
the wants, or rather, I should say, what are the attain- 
able wants (for they want everything) of the good Prussian 
people. The town is perfectly tranquil in appearance (it 
is, as you know in a state of siege), but I believe that a 
great deal of angry and bitter feeling is concealed 
beneath the constrained and unnatural appearance of 
calm which you everywhere meet with. My belief is 
that the French will return before long to monarchy. It 
appears to me that when once they manage to shift 
themselves off that parapet, they rush down into the 
depths of democracy with such rapidity that they are 
unable to remain at the bottom when thev have reached 



S4 JULIAN FANE. 

it : for the impetus given them by the rapidity of their 
descent propels them up the hill again on the other side, 
where they eventually arrive at what they started 
from." 

On the 17th of June in the following year he writes 
from Cambridge to the same friend. 

" Your conjecture with respect to the allusion in V. 
H.'s letter was correct. I have been summoned back to 
Cambridge to superintend the passage of my Exercise 
through the Pitt Press. Many thanks for your felicita- 
tions ; and more for your promise of spending a week 
with me at Cambridge before I leave its classic shades 
for ever. I recite my Exercise on the 2nd of July, and 
take my degree on the 4th, and shall probably go down 
on the following day. * * * After leaving Cam- 
bridge, I proceeded directly to Dublin, on a visit to my 
brother there, with whom I remained a fortnight. I was 
quite delighted with the city, and all it contains : men, 
beasts, and buildings. Such gallant men, and such 
lovely women ! such divine carmen, and such enchanting 
lamplighters ! such nunneries, and oh ! such nuns ! I 
worked very hard at sight-seeing (a stupendous labour !) 
while I was there ; and in the first three days I had seen 
all the notable things — and nothings — in the town. The 
consequence of which was that, in my waking hours, my 
mind was complexed with complicated recollections of 
palaces, pigstyes, pictures, popery, potatoes, politics, and 
pagodas, which chaos of things also haunted me in my 
sleeping hours with horrible nightmares. I set about 
however, after the first week, going over all my previous 
tracks of sights once more, and came away with a 



COLLEGE LIFE. 35 

distinct idea of the city and its people, — having learnt a 
little and seen a great deal. 

"I have not yet read ' In Memoriam ' through ; and 
will not, until I have done so, express any opinion on it. 
What I have read gives me a very high idea of its merits, 
and I look forward with intense satisfaction to the plea- 
sure (although it can scarcely fail of being a melancholy 
one) of reading it attentively through." 

The initials which occur in the beginning of this 
letter are those of his College friend, Mr. Vernon 
Harcourt, who, of all his Cambridge acquaintances, was, 
I think, the one for whose intellectual power he retained 
perhaps in after-life the strongest admiration. Xor was 
the friendship then commenced between them for a 
moment suspended or diminished at any period of their 
subsequent career. They remained to the last firmly 
and tenderly attached to each other, and my later 
chapters will contain Mr. Harcourt's recollections of the 
friend he loved so well. 

I subjoin meanwhile a few brief notes on Julian's 
College life by another most distinguished contem- 
porary. 

" I clearly recollect," writes Mr. Sumner Maine, "that, 
when my acquaintance with Julian Fane began at Cam- 
bridge, I thought him much the most brilliant young 
man I had met or seen. The vivacity and readifiess of 
his conversation, his grace of person and manner, his 
hereditary taste and skill in music, the amazing fluency 
with which he spoke two or three foreign languages, the 
knowledge which his familiarity with continental society 
had given him of things and people only seen at Cam- 

d 2 



36 JULIAN FANE. 

bridge through the imperfect medium of newspapers, 
would probably have left this impression on my mind, 
even if our acquaintance had not ripened into friendship. 
But I ultimately knew him well enough to find that my 
first impressions hardly did him justice. I have always 
thought that there was something not a little remarkable 
in his choice of associates at Cambridge. There were 
several sets of men at that time in the University, which 
might have appeared to have natural attractions for a 
person of his peculiar accomplishments and tastes, but 
the society to which he actually attached himself, con- 
sisted of young men who believed themselves to be united 
by a common devotion to serious thought, enquiry, and 
discussion — a devotion which some of them, I dare say, 
carried to the verge of affectation. It is probable that 
some, though by no means all, of the subjects with which 
his new friends occupied themselves were new at that 
time to Julian Fane, but he took them up with keen 
interest, his observations on them were thoughtful and 
often original, and he could quite hold his own in our 
debates. 

" If I had to single out one quality or capacity which 
then distinguished him more than another, I think I 
should say it was the faultlessness of his taste. His own 
University success was in some degree an illustration of 
this. Of all the hopeless subjects which the authorities 
at Cambridge arc in the babit of prescribing with the 
professed object of stimulating the poetical faculty in 
undergraduates, the subject on which Julian Fane had 
to write ;i Prize Poem was about the most hopeless, but 
there was great good taste as well as ingenuity in the 



MR. SUMNER MAINE S RECOLLECTIONS. 37 

selection of ' Lycidas ' as a model, and the young writer 
followed the spirit and rhythm of his original with a 
curious felicity. In our frequent discussions on poetry 
I never failed to be struck by his critical power. 

" Julian Fane's profession allowed him to be little in 
England after he quitted Cambridge, and my own 
profession took me ultimately to a distant country. The 
communications which passed between us consisted 
chiefly in messages expressing a hope on either side, 
never destined to be fulfilled, that our personal intimacy 
might one day be renewed. His diplomatic career and 
the promise of professional eminence and usefulness 
which he gave, are only known to me by report ; but if 
much ability, great tact, great versatility, and a power of 
attracting men growing chiefly out of unfailing sweetness 
of disposition, contribute to success in his profession, he 
ought to have succeeded brilliantly, for all these qualities 
were his in the days when he was familiarly known to 
me." 

The account of Julian's University life I will now 
close with another sketch of him as he appeared to his 
contemporaries there, by Mr. Henry James, also a most 
intimate and valued College friend. Mr. James has so 
justly and delicately appreciated the character of his 
friend, that I gratefully avail myself of his considerate 
permission to print here the felicitous description of 
it contained in this interesting record of his personal 
recollections. 

"To recall the Julian Fane of this period [1847 — 
1850] is to remember the brightest hours of the happiest 
of my College days. I believe that all men felt exhila- 



38 JULIAN FANE. 

rated by his presence. He brought to the discussion of 
graver topics such buoyancy of heart, and to lighter talk 
contributed so much wit and gaiety and happy laughter, 
that dulncss and he were seldom found together. Those 
who knew him only by name and by sight, and drew 
their estimate of 'Fane of Trinity' from hearsay 
comment, and such casual indications as his habits and 
manner afforded, would probably describe him as a 
singularly handsome and graceful man, of a refined and 
sensitive nature, redeemed from all charge of effeminacy 
by a manly dignity of presence and a certain noble 
carelessness, who held himself rather lightly aloof from 
the usual pursuits of University men. He seldom 
attended lectures, never boated, utterly disliked wine- 
parties, very rarely was seen at a breakfast, cared 
neither for billiards nor cards, never rode nor drove, 
rarely visited the Union, and belonged to no ' set.' It 
was but natural that coming up to Cambridge after the 
experience of four years at a foreign Embassy, his 
interest in College life — though he was then under 
twenty — should differ from ours, who rejoiced in it 
mainly as bringing freedom from the restraints of school, 
and as being our first introduction to responsible life. 
He saw in it only a delightful opportunity for quiet 
reading, and for the cultivation of his special gifts. His 
disi ribution of time was somewhat unusual. Those who 
wished to have a walk with him did well not to fix the 
meet at their own rooms, but wisely sought his about one 
o'clock, and supplemented the ineffective efforts of his 
College servant to break his slumber. They broke lightly 
enough, however, a( a friend's voice, and no more 



TRIBUTE OF ANOTHER COLLEGE FRIEND. 39 

willing or more joy oris companion could one anywhere 
find. Neither monotonous roads nor gloomy weather 
dispirited him. Indeed, I never remember seeing him 
even for a moment moody or despondent ; but he had 
always the air of a man of faultless health and temper, to 
whom simply to live was enjoyment. After hall his 
wont was to retreat to some friend's rooms, and there to 
sit at ease and talk and talk. Those only who have 
known the infinite charm of his conversation, can 
imagine how vividly the memory of these hours lives for 
many of us. For myself I owe to them, beyond the 
inexhaustible delight which they opened to me in a 
friendship so warm and kindly, the first germs of 
thoughts, and feelings, and tastes, which I have often 
since recognized as most valuable possessions. Not 
seldom we sat thus till midnight ; though his usual 
habit was to return about eight to his own rooms, and 
sit up reading and writing till the morning. 

" His intellectual sympathies at this time were essen- 
tially artistic. He took a very strong interest in politics, 
and had. a leaning towards philosophy, but poetry and 
music he passionately loved. Possibly many of his 
friends never heard him read a line, for he most sensi- 
tively shunned the reputation of an enthusiast, but some- 
times, as the memory of some favourite passage stirred 
within him, he would glow with the fire of Shakespeare's 
burning thought, or melt to the tremulous tenderness of 
Tennyson or of Shelley. His voice was then as a perfect 
instrument in a master's hand, ready to utter the most 
intense passion, or to vibrate to the lightest touch of 
subtle feeling : yet not voice only was eloquent, but every 



40 JULIAN FANE. 

look and motion. The force of his expression is wit- 
nessed to by the fact that I can remember to this hour, 
as I read ' Hamlet ' or ' In Memoriam ' or many of 
Shelley's lyrics, his action and tone as he read them to 
me twenty years ago ; and its excellence is attested, by 
my judgment at least, as I find that I still can gain no 
more delicate or more profound appreciation of these 
passages than that which I caught thus from him. Of 
his own poems of this period I need not speak, as most 
of them have been published. His power in music I was 
not able at all adequately to measure, though I could 
not but observe constantly how great was his love for it. 
He had an exceedingly fine ear, and quite a marvellous 
facility in remembering music he had heard. He often 
composed, though as he knew nothing at this time of 
musical notation he was unable to write anything down. 
He not unfrequently would sing over to me the airs to 
which he had linked some favourite lyric. He very soon 
banished his piano from his rooms, as he found that it 
stole his thoughts from reading; and one might well 
understand that, hearing how often in the day they were 
unconsciously pursuing some melody. 

" It was a matter of regret to some of us, I remember, 
that he did not take part frequently in the Union debates. 
To my knowledge he spoke there but once, when he 
created an impression — it was in the midst of a debate 
on democracy — rather by the announcement of certain 
startling intelligence which he had that evening privately 
received of the popular insurrection in Berlin, than by 
any eloquence he displayed. He had certainly the pre- 
sence, the fire, and the gift of ready thought and word 



AS A CAMBRIDGE APOSTLE. 41 

which go to make an orator. I doubt, however, whether 
he would not always have needed a great occasion, and a 
highly cultivated audience to call him forth. He did 
not care much, I think, to persuade masses of men, but 
rather to win those for whom he had affection. Many 
of those who now so deeply regret his loss will remember 
how powerfully he could urge an argument in which his 
feelings were engaged. Many too will recal with what 
grace and vigour, and also with what infinite humour he 
took his part in those more friendly and free debates* 
which, ' in another place ' were waged 

' On mind and art, 
And labour, and the changing mart, 
And aU the framework of the land.' 

" From his first entrance into that Society, he eagerly 
embraced the tradition of fraternity which he found to be 
one of its most cherished principles. Always eager-hearted 
and unrestrained, he found himself at once in a climate 
suited to his genial and affectionate nature. He would 
hardly have been the leader of thought amongst us, even 
if we had been disposed to acknowledge one, nor was he, 
as some others were, the recognized champion of certain 
opinions to be held against all comers. He was always, 
however, a forward fighter, and brought a very tough 
lance into the field. Still he will be rather remembered 
amongst us, I think, for his brilliance and grace, for his 
buoyant spirits, for his gentle wit and happy raillery, for 
his generous warmth of heart and quick sympathy, and 

* A.n allusion to the Conversazione Society before described. 



42 JULIAN FANE. 

for all those countless courtesies which so much endeared 
him to us all. 

"No one of his intimate friends could at any period of 
his life, I imagine, speak of him without enthusiasm. 
For myself no words would seem to me too strong to 
describe the admiration which I felt for him in our 
College days. It is possible, no doubt, to analyse this 
feeling to some extent, and thus show in part to others, 
the secret of the charm he exercised. This I have tried 
to do : but words can no better paint the beauty of a 
spirit finely touched by nature, than they can describe 
the individual expression of a face, or the tones of a 
voice. It will be at once seen that I have attempted to 
recal him only as he was when he 'wore the gown.' 
Distance and diversity of life, though they never 
weakened our friendship, from that time so far separated 
us as of necessity to make my knowledge of him in the 
maturity of his power very fragmentary. I have but 
recorded my impression of him as he was during a brief 
period of repose in his active life, retracing the mere out- 
line of a living picture which always has been dear and 
now is sacred in my memory. 

« H. A. J." 
"October, 1870." 



A few words it will be right to add before passing from 
these College days. The delight in his companionship, 
then felt by all, has been in a remarkable manner shown 
by these Letters quoted from some of the most distin- 
guished of the men who had the privilege of sharing it. 
But there were also results from his Cambridge residence, 



RESULTS OF CAMBRIDGE LIFE. 43 

of which mention should not be omitted. Prominently 
as we see the charm of his social habits remaining in the 
recollection of all who at that time came in contact with 
him, I have reason to know that he was also acquiring 
while there, notwithstanding a mode of life that seemed 
adverse to the acquisition, gains in the way of labour 
and study which were afterwards a very precious posses- 
sion to him. Underneath that seemingly desultory life, 
he managed to find time for much hard, steady work ; 
and it was his own belief at a later time that the check 
thus placed on the inclinations which his nature might 
have led him more freely to indulge, had been his 
greatest advantage brought away from Cambridge. 
Many causes afterwards conspired to weaken this ; but 
the determination with which he went to College, and 
the degree of success that attended the effort he there 
made to repair the interruptions to his previous educa- 
tion, were influences that remained with him to the yery 
last not inoperative. The practical side of his character, 
almost unconsciously to himself, had been silently 
strengthened by them. " Every one who knew ^im 
thoroughly," writes one who was not a sharer in his 
College life, but who watched closely his subsequent 
career, "must have felt that what after all was pre- 
eminently remarkable in him, was the strong practical 
understanding, the upright, almost stern sense of justice, 
which, mingling with so many light and bright qualities 
as rose ever to the surface with him, constituted the 
secret of his attraction to so many persons of the most 
opposite tastes and tendencies." It was in my opinion 
in an especial manner due to the effect upon him of his 



44 JULIAN FANE. 

work at Cambridge, that this force of character found 
the means to make itself thus variously felt, and that so 
many men of opposite pursuits and temperaments liked 
him, were influenced by him, and thought themselves 
the better for their intercourse with him. 












CHAPTER IV. 

Qualities which fitted Julian Fane for Parliamentary success counter- 
acted by others of a different order. Life at Apethorpe. Verses 
descriptive of Apethorpe. Attache at Vienna. Life there. 
Early Verses. Point of view from which they should be regarded. 
Specimens. Later unpublished Poetry. 

Me. James has referred in his sketch, to the natural 
eloquence of Julian Fane, with some doubt as to whether 
it was of a kind likely to achieve a great Parliamentary 
success. My own impression is that if, at any period 
of his life, Julian Fane had entered Parliament, his 
success as a speaker would' have been immediate and 
brilliant. But I greatly doubt whether he either would 
or could have taken an active or leading part in the 
business of the House. He possessed in a high degree 
all those qualities which recommend a first speech to 
the favourable hearing of such an assembly as the House 
of Commons. His figure was lofty and striking ; his 
countenance expressive and eminently high bred ; his 
gesture naturally graceful. He had exquisite taste and 
tact, thorough good humour and good sense, and that 
tolerance of platitude which is so valuable a quality in 
dealing with popular assemblies. But with his passion 
for literature, he would probably have broken loose from 
any prolonged servitude to the vulgar drudgeries of 



46 JULIAN FANE. 

Parliamentary life ; and, even if he could have resolved 
upon the permanent subordination of his inbred tastes 
to common -pi ace business, the way would not have been 
clear for him. 

We all know what sort of career is offered by English 
political life to any man who is too conscientious to 
attach himself to party. I once expressed to an eminent 
English politician my surprise at the pledge he had 
given his constituents to support a measure in which 
I was unable to detect anything deserving the approval 
of his acute and searching intellect. The reply 
(made in all seriousness) was, " If I had not given 
the pledge, I could not have represented any Liberal 
constituency ; and as I am not a Tory there was no help 
for it." 

His sister says of Julian, in a letter to the writer : 
" His scrupulous dread of, and contempt for, deceit, 
or double motive, was (if it be possible) earned to 
excess. It was certainly this which made him re- 
nounce the ideas entertained for him by others (and at 
times by himself) of Parliamentary life. Clear-judging 
enough to see the weak side of all parties, he was too 
conscientious to bear the idea of attaching himself to 
any ; dreading lest he should ever have to compromise 
between his party and his conscience; and he carried this 
feeling to such an extent that it induced him to give up 
all thoughts of the career for which his tastes, as well as 
his abilities, really most fitted him." It was probably 
the same fastidious conscientiousness which also pre- 
vented him from entering the Church: a profession 
which, regarded merely as a profession, was at all times 



AT APETHORPE. 47 

very attractive to his contemplative temperament ; and 
to which at one time he had a strong inclination. 

In 1849, whilst he was still at Cambridge, the state of 
his health necessitated change of air and absolute repose 
of mind. Acting on the advice of his physicians he re- 
turned to Apethorpe, the country seat of his father, who 
with the other members of his family was then abroad. 
Here his time was passed chiefly in the society of an old 
keeper, and in the enjoyment of field-sports, for which 
he retained to the last the keenest relish. "He often 
recalled that time," says his sister, " as one of the 
happiest in his life. He loyed the place, and everything 
about it ; and I haye heard him say, in later years, that, 
had he gone into the Church (as was once thought of,) 
the life in the old rectory at Cliffe (close to Apethorpe, 
and in his father's gift) would have been more congenial 
to his real tastes than the life which, as it happened, he 
was destined to lead." His affection for Apethorpe, and 
the tenacity of it, have found touching expression in 
some delightful lines written by him in the year 1860. 
By a few delicately descriptive touches, they set before 
us a perfect picture of the old house he loved so well ; 
and the reader will find in them adequate evidence of 
the grace and strength of his later versification. 

" The moss-grey mansion of my father stands 
Park'd in an English pasturage as fair 
As any that the grass-green isle can show. 
Above it rise deep- wooded lawns ; below 
A brook runs riot thro' the pleasant lands, 
And blabs its secrets to the merry air. 
The village peeps from out deep poplars, where 
A grey bridge spans the stream ; and all beyond, 



48 JULIAN FANE. 

In sloping vales and sweet acclivities, 
The many-dimpled, laughing landscape lies. 
Four-square, and double -courted, and grey-stoned, 
Two quaint quadrangles of deep-latticed walls, 
Grass-grown, and moan'd about by troops of doves, 
The ancient House ! Collegiate in name, 
As in its aspect, like the famous Halls 
Whose hoary fronts make reverend the groves 
Of Isis, or the banks of classic Cam." 

" He was never happier than when at Apethorpe," (I 
quote from the letter of one who was much with him in 
those days) " and never more brilliant or more genial 
than when living there with his country neighbours. 
He seemed to take the liveliest interest in all the poor of 
the village, and the dependants of his father's estate. 
With the keenest sense of humour and a rare apprecia- 
tion of character, it was his daily delight to draw out 
their peculiarities. But in doing so he threw himself 
heartily into all their interests, and divined their 
feelings with a genuine sympathy. In such inter- 
course he was gracious without being patronising, and 
familiar without loss of dignity. From his parents 
he inherited the power of giving unaffected cordiality to 
all social relations ; and lie was as anxious to please, as 
considerate, and as attentive to the feelings of others, 
when entertaining the humblest and least gifted of his 
lather's numerous country guests, as amid the brilliant 
intellectual society in which I have met him at other 
times." 

In 1851, Lord Westmorland quitted Berlin, and was 
appointed British Minister at Vienna. Thither his son 
Julian accompanied him, in the character of unpaid 



ATTACHE AT VIENNA. 49 

attache to that Mission. He was promoted to the rank 
of Second Paid Attache in the winter of the same year, and 
to that of First Paid Attache in the summer of 1853. The 
duties of First Paid Attache to a large Mission are often 
onerous. He organizes its mechanical work, and assigns 
to each of his subordinates his appropriate labour, for 
the adequate performance of which the responsibility rests 
with him, not with them. He keeps its archives and the 
various registers of its current correspondence, political, 
commercial, consular, and private. In German Missions 
it is generally the First Attache who undertakes the princi- 
pal work of translation, which is often heavy. In addition 
to these duties Julian Fane, so long as Lord Westmorland 
remained Minister at Vienna, performed those of Private 
Secretary to his father. All this while he continued to 
mix largely in Viennese society ; of which, says one who 
knew him at that time, "he was the life and soul; 
dancing at all the balls, acting in all the private 
theatricals, frequenting the club, &c." Nevertheless his 
professional and social occupations did not prevent him 
from assiduously prosecuting his private studies, and 
cultivating his many accomplishments. After a long 
day of professional business, followed by a late evening of 
social amusement, he would return in the small hours of 
the night to his books, and sit, unwearied, till sunrise in 
the study of them. Nor did he then seem to suffer from 
this habit of late hours. His nightly vigils occasioned 
no appearance of fatigue the next day. This was pro- 
bably the most active and animated period of his life ; 
and I think that during these years he read harder and 
more systematically than at any later time. In the year 



50 JULIAN FANE. 

18 12, he returned to England to superintend the publi- 
cation of B small volume of poems, of which it is now 
time to speak. 

Julian Fane was the perfect realization of a character 
as rare perhaps as that of the poet, the statesman, or the 
orator. But it is not any of these, and it essentially 
differs from them all. It is that of the man who partakes 
of them all, who understands, judges, and feels them all. 
Of him I use the word " accomplished " only in the highest 
sense. The outcome of his complete individuality was 
thoroughly original ; but it was not original poetry, ori- 
ginal eloquence, or original intellect. It was original 
charm : a charm not only original but unique, and which 
included a high degree of poetry, eloquence, and intellect. 
He was a man of whom it might truly be said — 

" All liberal natures liis did hold, 
As the Ark held the world of old." 

His verses, therefore, must be regarded only as one of 
the incidental products of his multitudinous accomplish- 
ments, and as evidence of his many-sided sympathy with 
all forms of intellectual beauty. From this point of view 
they are remarkable They are not the embodiments of 
at objective conceptions which constitute the 
originality of creative poets ; nor yet are they the spon- 
taneous irrepressible bird-notes of that genuinely lyric 
temperament which unconsciously transmutes all sub- 
jective Bensations into an original music of its own. 
They have been written partly bo solace a passionate 
taste forpoetry; partly as the choicest forms of expression 
for domestic affections deeply felt, and yet ideally con- 
templated. 



CHARACTER OF EARLY POEMS. 51 

In some childish verses written by him in his schoolboy 
days, after alluding to the poet's desire of fame, and pre- 
vision of posthumous renown, he says — 

" But I myself desire not 

The joys which spring from such a source ; 
I covet, know them, prize them, not ; 
I feel not their inspiring force." 

" Events," he says — 

" in after years remain 

Still fresh and clear to memory, 

But we can never feel again 
The bliss they gave in passing by : " 

save by the aid of Poetry which revives our faded 
impressions, and restores not only the outward image 
but also the inmost emotions, of the past. 

" And we behold our childhood's home, 

Our days of youthfulness and joy, 
The scenes thro' which we loved to roam 

When yet we claimed the name of Boy." 

" These," he concludes, " are the charms for which I 
write : this the ambition of my soul ! " Whereto I find 
appended this pencil-mark in the handwriting of later 
days : " God wot, the ambition is poor enough, and the 
rhymes worthy of it. J. F." Yet these childish rhymes 
(poor, indeed, as compared with the careful polish and 
deepened strength of his later compositions) indicate 
very truthfully the nature of those sentiments for which 
his cultivated taste, and passionate love of beautiful 
language, first prompted him to find appropriate expres- 
sion in verse. The lines thus written were not 

e 2 



■)'l JULIAN FANE. 

challenges to fame, but sacred gifts privately offered on 
the altar of household affections. All his early v 
are to be described as of an essentially domestic cha- 
racter; for the most part they appear to have been 
prompted by the daily incidents of personal friendship or 
family affection ; and the subjects and titles of them will 
sufficiently explain why I leave them undisturbed in the 
sanctuary of those household gods to whose gentle 
worship they were dedicated. " To my mother, with a 
wreath of flowers ; " " On receiving a note from two 
young ladies with only the word wir in it;" "To 

B , during sickness ;" " On leaving Berlin, 1847 ; " 

" On my father's birthday ; " " Lines to be repeated by 

R to her mother on her birthday ; " " To R. ; " 

"To Ernest Fane" (his brother); "To L." (his dead 

:); "To my mother ;" "An Ode," addressed to 

Jenny Lind, whose genius lie warmly admired, and for 

whom lie had a cordial affection. "A birthday choral 

ode ; " " To K ; " " To , in the first leaf of her 

commonplace hook;" "To R "(in French) ; "In 

memory of Lord Belfast ; " " 111 memory of Lord 
Raglan ; M &c. 

Out of ;i large number u[' verses written on such 
Bubjects, only a very limited selection could properly be 
made for publication. In thai selection he was assisted 
by his mother, to whom most of them had been originally 
addressed* The small volume published in 1852 was the 
resull of their deliberations; and, says she, " we after- 
ward.- Laughed heartily at one <>(' the criticisms denounc- 
ing the Qumber ami variety of his amours, as implied by 
the numerous names to which the verses were addressed : 



PUBLISHED PIECES. 53 

the fact being that he and I together had chosen and 
applied them, carefully avoiding* the names of friends." 

From this little volume, I select the following speci- 
mens of its writer's earliest poetry. 



TO KATHLEEN. 



When, in that hour which saw us part, 
My faltering- voice refused to teU 

The anguish of an aching heart, 

From thy sweet lips these accents fell : 



" Thou leav'st me on a darkened strand. 
And, fading from my faithful eye, 

Like Light thou passest from the land. 
And I will follow — or I die." 

in. 

I wait, I watch, as from a tower, 
On leaden wings the minutes move ! 

Thou comest not, nor comes the hour 
That brings me tidings of my love. 

IV. 

I wait — and Morning comes indeed ! 

I watch her glowing steps encroach 
Upon the dark, and think to read 

The signal of thy sweet approach ; 



Or draw, when twilight veils the world. 

Vague promise from the rich array 
Of clouds, like banners half unfurled, 

That droop about the dying day. 



54 JULIAN PANE. 



Bo Morn and Eve, that slow succeed, 
By turns my futile fancy fire, 

And bring but lying- thoughts to feed 
An ever-unfulfilled desire. 



But these blank, bitter hours that still 

The daily death of hope renew, 
Are weak to vanquish Love, and kill 

The cherished thought that counts thee true. 



ODE. 



The year lies bound in wintry chains, 
The keen frost sparkles in the air, 

The snow-sheet whitens all the plains, 
The leafless trees are black and bare ; 

The swallow hath fled o'er the lea, 

The songsters make no minstrelsy, 
The bitter wind makes hollow moan ; 

Around each household hearth a throng- 

I- gathered for tin- bale or song- ; 

liut thou art not t lie groups among, 
Thou Bittest in the house alone I 



'I'hf year Ifl up, and full of mirth, 
The Laughing plains arc decked with green, 
Spring walks upon the happy earth, 

'l'li.- vernal luve/.es blow serene ; 

The bildfl p<»ur BOng from every tree. 

Beneath them hums the murmuring bee, 



PUBLISHED PIECES. 55 

The air is rife with merriest sound ; 
All hearts are light — the hour is sweet, 
Glad faces in the sunshine meet, 
Both young and old leave their retreat, 

But thou with Solitude art found ! 



Thou art not of a sullen mind, 

For thou art loving, gentle, good ; 
Thou art no hater of thy kind, 

But thou adorest Solitude. 
The Seasons change, the fleeting years 
Pass on ; — in thee no change appears, 

Thou art the same from day to day ; 
Calm, quiet, amorous of rest, 
But, with an equal temper blest, 
Not bitter to the stranger guest 

Who traverses thy lonely way. 



All in thy solitary hours 
What consolation dost thou find ? 

Large comfort from those heavenly Powers 
That brood about the lofty mind ; 

The spirits of the Great and Good 

Attend upon thy solitude, 
With Wisdom's philosophic scroll ; 

And from the bright immortal page 

Of bard inspired, and reverend sage, 

(The Wise and Just of every age) 
Is fed the fountain of thy soul. 

v. 

Then let the silly blockhead prate 
About " the joyous and the free ! " 

And gravely shake his empty pate, 
And mourn the lot of such as thee ! 

He knoweth not (himself unblest) 

The calm contentment of that breast 



56 JULIAN FANE. 

Where dwells divine Philosophy ; 
She takes the salt from human tears, 
She leap- the gulf of countless years, 
And scorning abject doubts and fears, 

Points upwards to her home— the sky ! 



I will not say that thou art free 
From thoughts which wring the tender heart : 

The reflex of thy memory 
May haply cause thy tears to start ; 

Thou art so full of mystery, 

I will not scan thy history, 
But let me speak that which I know : 

If gentle in thy thoughts and deeds 

Thou, having sown thy generous seeds, 

Hast reaped in tears a crop of weeds, 
Thou hast great comfort in thy woe ! 



O'er countless wrongs the heart aggrieved. 
In anguish for a space may brood ; 

But happy he, who hath received, 
And not requited, ill for good ! 

The shining deeds by Virtue done, 

(As through the tempest breaks the Sun) 
Th<ir rays through clouds of sorrow dart ; 

And, whatso'er thy griefs, I know 

A thousand virtuous actfl bestow 

(Though breaking through thick mists of woe 
Their heavenly sunshine on thy heart. 



Bui here I 01 e my minstrelsy, 
Tom fearful Lest I miss my end ; 

And, bender heart, in wounding thee, 
Against my better thought offend. 

Thou haal no need of words from me, 

For thine own soul's divinity 



PUBLISHED PIECES. 57 

Can lift thee from the world below ; 

And, passing through thy upturned eyes 

Into the regions of the skies, 

Thy spirit can sublimely rise 
Beyond the thoughts of earthly woe ! 



A SIMILE. 



A throned queen listening the musical love 
Of thronging multitudes, resembleth thee 

Seated upon the waters, and above 

Bearing thy bold brow, beautiful and free, 
While at thy sovereign feet the subject Sea 

Rolls — and vast multitudes of vocal waves, 
With such strange din as Love and Liberty 

Send from the wild hearts of new-franchised slaves. 

Salute thy ear, and echo, Albion ! through thy caves. 



AD MATREM. 



If those dear eyes that watch me now, 
With looks that teach my heart content : 
That smile which o'er thy placid brow 
Spreads, with Delight in pure concent : 
And that clear voice whose rise and fall 
Alternates, in a silver chime : 
If these fair tokens false were all 
That told the tale of fleeting Time — 
I scarce should mark his swift career, 
So little change has o'er thee passed, 
So much thy Present doth appear 
Like all my Memory holds most dear, 
When she recalls thy perfect Past ! 
Unchanged thou seem'st in mind and frame : 



58 JULIAN FANE. 

Thy sweet smile brightens still the same : 
In thy fair face is nothing strange ; 
And when from out thy pure lips flow 
Thy earnest words with grace, I know 
Thy Wisdom hath not suffered change ! 
And so thy Presence, bland and glad, 
Wherein no trace of change appears, 
Proclaims not that this day will add 
A fresh sheaf to thy garnered years ! 
But Time himself proclaims his power, 
And will not pass unheeded by : 
At every turn his ruins lie, 
I track his steps at every door ; 
Or, musing with myself, I find 
His signet borne by every thought, 
From many a moral blemish wrought 
By more of commerce with my kind ; 
Who am not armed, as thou in youth, 
To bear unhurt the brunt of Life, 
To battle with the foes of Truth, 
And issue scarless from the strife ; 
Not pure, as thou, to pass unscared, 
Where knaves and fools infest the ways, 
By their rank censure unimpaired, 
And spotless from their ranker praise. 
And thus the slow year, circling round, 
Mara with no change thy soul serene, 
While [, though changed, alas ! am found 
Far other than I should have been, 
And only not at heart unsound, 
Because thy love still keeps it green ; 
Oh ! therefore, from that worse decay 
To save me with Love's holiest dew, 
Eeaven guard thee, dear] and oft renew 

Return of this thy natal day : 

And teach me, with each rolling year 
Thai Leaves as on a heartless Earth, 

To Love t lire so, t ha! Love may boar 

Fruits worthier of thy perfect worth ; 

And so, what over ills betide, 



LATER UNPUBLISHED POETRY. 59 

Whatever storms about me lour, 
Though, broken by the bolts of Pride, 
And scorched by Envy's lightning power, 
I shall not perish in the blast, 
But prosper while thou still art nigh, 
By my pure love preserved, and by 
My guardian Spirit saved at last. 



The "Ode" which I have included among these poems 
was written by Julian to the second wife of his grand- 
father ; an eccentric woman, whose life had not been 
happy, but who possessed many fine and generous 
qualities which were warmly appreciated by her grand- 
son. In this and the others quoted, as throughout the 
volume published in 1852, the influence of various 
popular poets, and chiefly of Mr. Tennyson, can doubt- 
less be detected : but I have already indicated the point 
of yiew from which I think they should be regarded. 
Upon a later page, however, will appear some poems 
hitherto unpublished, which express the same vividness 
of personal affection, deepened as the years had passed, 
and which take from his maturer thought and expe- 
rience a higher character. From his earliest boyhood 
to the latest year of his life, his mother's birthday never 
came and went without being greeted by him with a 
tribute of song. Neither business, nor pleasure, nor 
extreme physical pain, ever interfered with the religious 
regularity of these annual dedications of an affection 
exalted into piety by the sacred tenderness and infinite 
depth of its devotion. Many of them were sonnets in 
the form of which Shakespeare made such wonderful 
use, and which later English poets have so little em- 



GO JULIAN FANE. 

ployed, that, iii the range of modern poetry, few happier 

examples of it exist than Julian Fane's. He made of it, 
as the Great Master had done, a " key to unlock his 
heart." Originality of expression accompanies all inten- 
sity of genuine feeling ; in the poetic nature it takes its 
highest and happiest manifestations ; and what is merely 
imitative in the manner of his sonnets " Ad Matrem," 
is no drawback from the pleasure with which they will 
be read. Their source and inspiration went deeper than 
any other emotion of his life, and some of them are the 
best poetry he has written. 



CHAPTER V. 

Unpublished Translation from Heinrich Heine, and Sketch of Heine, 
by Julian Fane. 

In the month of November, 1855, Julian Fane con- 
tributed to the Saturday Review an article upon 
Heinrich Heine, which I believe to be the first article 
published by that Eeview on the subject. Many 
excellent ones upon it have since appeared, both in the 
Saturday Review, and other critical periodicals ; and 
the life and works of Heinrich Heine are now better 
known to the English public than they were at the time 
when Fane's notice of them was written. This article, 
however, is still interesting. It contains one of his 
excellent translations from Heine, and forms an appro- 
priate introduction to the others, to be shortly given, in 
connection with which it is here reprinted. 

HEINRICH HEINE, POET AND HUMORIST. 

Heinrich Heine commenced his literary career in the 
year 1821. He then published, under the title of Youthful 
Sorrows, the first series of those lyrical poems which compose 
the celebrated Booh of Songs (Buck der Lieder), and four years 
later appeared the first portion of his Sce/tes of Travel (Reise- 
bilder) — two productions which at once established his fame 
as the founder of a new school of German letters. The latter 



62 JULIAN FANE. 

work, written in prose, with interludes and fragments of 
verse which have since been incorporated into the Bach der 
r, is neither a romance nor a descriptive book of travels. 
It may rather be called a picture of the time in which it was 
written. The hopes and fears which then agitated the minds 
of men, the conflict of opinions, religious, moral, and poli- 
tical, which convulsed society, are, under many disguises, 
and with much circumlocution, the themes of which it treats. 
One of the chief aims of the scornful writer was to revile that 
spirit of patriotism which, while it roused the German people 
to throw off the yoke of Prance, had taught them, in resisting 
French dominion, to rebel also against French ideas and to 
repudiate the principles of the Eevolution. When that 
national enthusiasm in Germany passed away with the causes 
that had engendered it, a profound melancholy seemed to 
settle upon the nation. It might in part have been produced 
by the reaction which naturally followed a period of such 
fierce and enduring excitement; but the influence of disap- 
pointed hope, leading to the relinquishment of long-cherished 
expectations, was plainly to be traced in the sullen lethargy 
of the people. The author of the Reisebilder denounced both 
the hopes which had elated and the disappointment which 
now depressed his countrymen. Their follies are the object 
of his contemptuous satire ; the glories of the Consulate and 
Empire kindle his wild declamation ; and the Emperor, trans- 
figured in the imagination of a poet, becomes the hero of 
revolutionary France — the rude inaugurator of a new era for 
men. lint there is no subject too grave, no theme too light, 
for the supple pen of the brilliant writer. At one moment, 
he assaults and takes by >torm the strongholds of antiquated 
opinion ; at another, he describes with infinite humour a 
tavern-supper; and an English tourist, a schoolboy, a 
passing oloud, furnish him with food for merriment or re- 
lied ion as li« i pursues his careless way. Into the province of 
Art the young Reformer entered with an audacity which 
;i>iuiiii(l<'<l its Bobei and terrified guardians. Singing his 
wild u ( ( a Era," be proceeded with revolutionary zeal to over- 



ON HEINRICH HEINE. 63 

turn the idols lie there found enthroned. The romantic 
school, with its nasal twang, must depart ; the maudlin 
worshippers of a canting sentimentalism must be thrust out ; 
senseless forms, from which the spirit had long since fled, 
now get buried without any rites of sepulture ; exact pro- 
priety and pompous gravity are dismissed with a laugh, and 
pedantry in all its sickly shapes must be banished from the 
national literature. Great was the dismay, and great also the 
indignation, produced by the feat of the adventurous writer. 
His countrymen divided at once into two hostile parties, one 
of which saw with alarm arid shame the attack made upon 
all that it had been taught to consider venerable, while the 
other, gazing with rapture on the havoc that had been done, 
hailed its author as the chief of a happy revolution in the 
history of literature and art. 

But if opinions were divided on the merits of the fieise- 
bilder, there was one general acclamation to extol the Book of 
Songs. Here was a mere youth writing lyrics with a fresh- 
ness of diction and terseness of expression which would have 
done honour to the great Goethe himself, and with a grace 
of fancy which was peculiarly his own. Those who had been 
accustomed to look for the springs of poetry only in the 
artificial sentiments of rose-coloured romance, and to receive 
their inspiration in contemplating the characters and acts of 
heroes of fiction, were now taught that a true poet could 
discern spiritual beauty in the unsophisticated emotions of a 
rustic's heart, and could kindle with enthusiasm in singing 
of the deeds and destiny of his fellow-men. The Book of 
Songs was at once appropriated by the people, and it has ever 
since been rehearsed and sung by all the populations of 
Germany. It was appropriated by the people because the 
beauty of its inspirations was such as could be loved by the 
most unlettered, and understood by those who could give no 
reason for their admiration. Special culture, producing 
technical knowledge, is necessary to him who would 
thoroughly appreciate works of Art, and the delight felt by 
the contemplator of its noblest productions will generally be 



64 JULIAN FANE. 

in exact proportion to his apprehension of the skill required 
to execute them. An ignorant lover of music maybe pleased 
with a symphony by Mendelssohn, but his pleasure will be 
meagre compared with that of the student who can trace 
intricate harmony to the subtle combinations of the great 
master. There are, however, certain efforts of art which, 
dealing with some familiar occurrence, some vulgar scene 
or trite sentiment, present them perfect in truth as recog- 
nized by every eye, and perfect also in poetry as not recog- 
nized before by any eye but that of the artist ; and to a large 
appreciation of these no knowledge is needed. The humour 
of "Wilkie will tickle the soul of the unimaginative man who 
gravely played at " blind-man's-buff " in the house of his 
country-cousin last week ; and the sober moralist, who 
yesterday rebuked, somewhat roughly, the little girl whom 
he took for an incorrigible liar, will melt to-day at the pathos 
of Wordsworth and weep over " We are Seven." The genius 
of Heine loves to busy itself with the actual world, and, 
combining the humour of Wilkie with the pathos of Words- 
worth, has taught the simplest of his countrymen to be 
tender over the sorrows of a broken-hearted clown, and to 
make merry with the selfishness of " a generous man." 
Such poems as " Der arme Peter," "Der brave Mann," and 
many others in a similar style, have become national pro- 
perty, and it is to them that the Book of Songs owes its great 
popularity. 

But if, us has been above indicated, the author of the 
Book of Songs showed, both in his selection and treatment of 
.-om»' subjects, thai he possessed qualities in common with 
the gentle spirit of Wordsworth, he discovered a far closer 
affinity to the fierce, fretful soul of Byron. He had eagerly 
embraced, in common with the youth of his day, the prin- 
ciples of Ethics and Theology propounded by Hegel; and in 
the philosophy of the new school he had thought to find a 
theory of the universe which could raise him above all 
vexations of the spirit, and render liim, as a demigod, 
superior to " the ills thai flesh is heir to." His first contact 



POLITICAL CAREER OF HEINE. 65 

with the world served to dispel the flattering delusion, and 
the bitterness of his disappointment vented itself in a passion 
of satirical invective which respected neither things human 
nor divine. The youth, who had sung with the tenderness 
of Wordsworth, now scoffed with the temerity of Voltaire, 
ridiculed with the savageness of Swift, and railed with the 
spleen of Byron. When the storm of his satire had some- 
what abated, his writings became the expression of a soul 
that still doubted whether it should blandly smile or bitterly 
scoff at humanity. The fiendish element of sarcasm in the 
man was counteracted by his great human attribute of 
humour, and this in its turn was tempered by the gentle 
charities of a kindly imagination which saved its possessor 
from genuine misanthropy. But from the day when his 
faith in the philosophy he loved was shaken, Heine ceased 
to be an earnest man, and the manifold inconsistencies of his 
life and writings have followed as a natural sequel upon the 
overthrow of all law in his moral being. 

In the year 1830, being an exile from his own country, he 
took an active part in the political feuds of the day at Paris. 
He was of too liberal and enthusiastic a nature to feel 
sympathy with the advocates of reaction, and he lacked the 
firmness of character arising from sincerity of conviction, 
which would have led him boldly to declare for the revolu- 
tionary cause. While he avowed himself a Eoyalist, he 
wrote with the license of an insurrectionary chief. If he 
sometimes appeared as the earnest champion of Louis 
Philippe and Casimir Perrier, he more frequently displayed 
himself as the incorrigible humorist, who ridiculed all parties 
and believed in the principles of none. To the true lover of 
liberty, who is ever the true hater of anarchy, the political 
career of Heine is a source at once of irritation and regret, 
and its history must touch with unaffected sorrow the soul of 
every true admirer of his rare genius. 

In all his latter works he appears in a threefold character 
— as the tender imaginative poet, the fresh genial humorist, 
the snarling bitter cynic; and with mingled outbursts of 



66 JULIAN FANE. 

pathos, merriment, and irony he astonishes and perplexes 
his countrymen. They turn to the volume named X< ue 
Gkdichte, and find poems which are conceived with the 
simplicity of thought befitting a child, and clothed in a 
purity of language not unbecoming the lips of a saint. They 
turn to Deutechkmd ein Wintermdrchen, and are assaulted by 
the boisterous humour of a schoolboy, and by the coarse 
sarcasm of a sceptic who jeers not at the things of this world 
alone. In Bomanzero, his latest volume of poems, they 
find specimens of all his styles, and illustrations of all his 
inconsistencies. It is compounded of ballads and songs, 
which, in delicacy of conception and execution, rival the 
happiest efforts of his youth ; of poems which prove that the 
flight of time has neither refined the coarseness nor extracted 
the sting of his satire ; and of some passages in prose which 
could have been written only by the fantastic author of the 
Beisel'ihkr and the Salon, 

Those who admire with the largest and heartiest appre- 
ciation Heine's incomparable humour (a humour which has 
never been affected by the acutest torments of bodily 
disease, and which the approach of death itself is unable to 
subdue), cannot deny that he has frequently and grossly 
d the faculty by perverting it to low and libellous pur- 
poses. Indeed, the wanton insults which he has heaped 
upon his countrymen, the unjustifiable personalities in which 
he has indulged, and the effrontery with which he has 
approached subjects the most sacred in the eyes of the 
vast majority of his fellow-beings, do give evidence of a 
in moral turpitude in the man — out of which, however, 
as from a fetid soil, have grown those pure and perfect 
lilies of song with which he has adorned the literature of his 
native land. It is Impossible not to condemn much that he 
[\ i> scarcely possible sufficiently to praise a 
deal more; and while children and the purest of 
.1 Love him for tie- simple beauty of his songs, many a 
man liitl<" given to the affectation of purism abominates him 
for the scurrilous ribaldry Of his satires. If his countrymen 



Heine's last days. 67 

j^erplex themselves in endeavouring to spell the enigma of 
his character, it is perhaps because they make the attempt 
upon very false principles. Surely it is a vain labour to 
seek for consistency in the thoughts, and consecutiveness in 
the acts, of the greatest humorist of the age ; and the meta- 
physician, who is only intent on discovering the Grund-idee, 
or leading principle of a man's life, can scarcely hope to 
gauge the character of Heinrich Heine. 

The dying poet lies paralysed, blind, and bedridden in an 
obscure lodging of the Eue d' Amsterdam at Paris. Speaking 
of his great physical suffering and distress, he pathetically 
says : ■ ' But do I indeed still exist ! My body is gone so 
greatly to ruin, that there remains scarcely anything but 
the voice, and my bed reminds me of the sounding grave of 
Conjuror Merlin, which is situated in the wood of Brozeliand, 
in Brittany, under lofty oaks, whose tops taper, like emerald 
flames, towards heaven. Oh ! brother Merlin, I envy thee 
those trees, with their fresh breezes, for never a green leaf 
rustles about this mattress-grave of mine in Paris, where 
from morning to night I hear nothing but the rattle of 
wheels, the clatter of hammers, street-brawls, and the 
jingling of pianofortes." But amid the turmoil of the 
mighty city, sleep, the "balm of hurt minds," sometimes 
visits the dying poet, and then he dreams of happier days : 

I dreamt that I was young once more, and gaysome ; 
I saw the cottage on the high hill stand ; 
I raced along the well-known pathway, playsome, 
Swift-racing with Ottilia, hand in hand. 

How bravely is the little body fashioned ! 
Her deep blue eye, how fairy-like it shines ! 
She stands upon her small foot nrmly stationed, 
A form wherein with strength all grace combines. 

Her cordial voice it sounds so frank and gracious, 
Revealing all her soul, without eclipse ; 
And all she says is thoughtful and sagacious ; 
And like a pair of rosebuds are her lips. 

f 2 



08 JULIAN FANE. 

It is not love upon my senses stealing — 
My reason, undiseased, is at command ; 
Yet woiulrously her Being thrills my Being ; 
And tremblingly I stoop and kiss her hand. 

I think that at the last I culled a flower, 
And gave it her, and then spake loud and free : 
' Yea ! be my wife, Ottilia, from this hour, 
That I, like thee, may pure and happy be.' 

"What she replied I never may remember, 

For suddenly I woke ; and I lay here, 

Once more the sick-man, who in this sick-chamber 

Disconsolate has lain full many a year. 

Julian Fane's translations from Heine were never 
published. They were printed only for private circula- 
tion ; but they attracted considerable attention from 
Heine's English admirers, and were noticed by Lord 
Houghton, in an interesting article on Heine, which 
appeared some years ago in the Edinburgh Review. * 

"The very lightness of these admirable lyrics," says 
Lord Houghton, "makes it most difficult to reproduce 
them in another tongue." 

For such a task, however, Julian Fane was exception- 
ally qualified. In the first place, he was an excellent 
German scholar. In the second place, he had a fine 
poetic taste, a great facility of expression, and a cultivated 
ear. In the third place, he was free from that strong 
idiosyncrasy of genius which makes it so difficult for one 
original poet bo throw himself completely into the 
humour of another, and simply reproduce the utterances 
of it, without any admixture of some quality peculiar to 

* July, L856. The Translations were privately printed in 1854. 



QUALIFICATIONS FOR A TRANSLATOR. 69 

his own mind. Shelley's translations from Faust, for 
instance, are fragments of fine original poetry, but they 
are very inadequate and misleading reproductions of the 
original poetry of Goethe. There is in them at least 
quite as much of Shelley's genius as of Goethe's. 

Lord Houghton proceeds to say, in the article to which 
I have referred, that " Mr. Julian Fane's good scholar- 
ship renders his translations the most agreeable to those 
who are acquainted with the originals, but his attempt 
to transfer to another language many of the most pecu- 
liar idioms and most vivacious turns of thought, is 
frequently unsuccessful." The first (unpublished) version 
of Fane's translations from Heine was no doubt more or 
less disfigured by the Germanisms to which Lord 
Houghton objects.* They constitute a defect of which 
he was not himself unconscious ; and, had he ever cared 
to publish these translations, I am persuaded that, before 
doing so, he would have carefully removed from them all 
such impediments to the full enjoyment of their other- 
wise admirable reproduction of Heine's peculiar style. 
In fact, sundry pencil-marks of his upon the copy 
from which the following translations are selected, show 
that he was revising them (probably for the biography of 
Heine which he then contemplated) when that night 
came upon him ' wherein no man can work.' But the 
defect of an occasional foreign idiom or hardness of 
versification, is incomparably less injurious to the value 
of any metrical translation, than those defects of misin- 

* It is much to be regretted that Lord Houghton's own translations 
are not more numerous. They are all of them excellent. 



JULIAN FANE. 



terpretation which poets of the highest order have not 
escaped, in the endeavour to assimilate their own forms 
of expression to the genius of another man. 

Let these translations speak for themselves, however.* 



THE FAIRIES. 

The waves they plash on the lonely strand, 
The Moon gives out her beams ; 
A fair knight rests on the silvery sand 
Begirt with happy Dreams. 

The beautiful Fairies, fairy-bedight, 
Rise out of the great Sea's Deeps ; 
They softly draw near to the youthful knight, 
And they think that he certainly sleeps. 

Then, one with curious finger feels 
The feathers that deck his bonnet ; 
Another close to his shoulder-knot steals 
And plays with the chain upon it. 

A third one laughs and with cunning hand 
Unsheaths the sword from its keeper, 
And, leaning against the glittering brand, 
She watches well-pleased the sleeper. 



* At the end «'t each translation arc indicated the name of the 
volume and the number of the page from which the original poem is 
taken. 

i!. il. L. signifies Hiicli der Lieder. 

N. < ;. ,, Nine Gedichte. 
l:. ,, Etomanzero. 

The anmbering of the pages is the same in all the editions of Heine's 
published by Hoffmam and E£ampe, Hamburg. 



UNPUBLISHED PIECES. 71 

A fourth, she nutters about and above, 
And sighs from her little bosom : 
" Ay me ! that I were thy true true love, 
Thou beautiful Human blossom ! " 

A fifth the knight's fair fingers clasped, 
Filled with Love's longing blisses ; 
A sixth plays coy for awhile, but at last 
His lips and cheek she kisses. 

The knight is crafty, nor thinks he soon 

To open his eyelids wary, 

But quietly lies, to be kissed in the Moon 

By fairy after fairy. 

X. G. page 157. 



THE PHOENIX. 



There comes a bird flying out of the West, 
Eastward he flies ; 
Eastward towards his garden home 
Where spices breathe and fragrantly grow, 
Where Palm-trees rustle and fountains freshen- 
And the rare bird sings as he flies : 

" She loves him, she loves him, 
His image she bears in her little heart, 
She bears it sweetly and silently hidden, 
And knows it not herself. 
But in her dreams he stands before her ; 
She sues, she weeps and she kisses his hands, 
And calls him by his name ; 
And, calling, she wakes and lies in terror, 
And presses her palms to her beautiful eyes — 

She loves him, she loves him." 

* * * * 

Against the mast on the high foredeck 
I stood, and listened the strange bird's song. 



72 JULIAN FANE. 

Like dark-coloured steeds with silver rnanes 

Careered the white-curled waves. 

Like a flight of swans, with glimmering sails 

The Heligolanders sailed afar, 

Those Nomads bold of the North-Sea. 

Above me, within the eternal Blue, 

A white cloud poised ; 

And beautiful shone the eternal Sun, 

That rose of the Heavens, the fiery-glowing, 

"Which gladly glassed itself in the sea — 

And the Sea and the Heavens and my own heart 

In echo resounded, 

" She loves him, she loves him ! " 

B. d. L. page 355. 



QUERIES. 

By the Sea, the desolate midnight-sea, 
Stands a lonely youth, 

His breast full of sorrow, his head full of doubt, 
And with mournful lips he questions the wav 

" O tell me the riddle of Life, 
The torturing, time-worn riddle, 
O'er which so many a head hath ached — 
Heads in Hieroglyphic Xiglit-caps, 
Heads in turbans and bonnets black, 
Beads in full wigs, and a thousand other 
Poor, perspiring heads of men. 
Tell me, what Bignifyetb Man ? 

WheTiee docs he COme ? and whither goes ? 
Who lives there above in the golden stars? " 

The waves, they mutter their ceaseless murmur, 
The winds they blow and the clouds fly over, 
The stars tiny glitter oareless and cold, 
and a Fool stands waiting an answer. 

B. d. L. page 353. 



UNPUBLISHED PIECES. 73 



A TRAGEDY. 



I. 



Fly thou with me and be my wife, 
And, on my heart reposing, roam ; 
Far in a foreign-land my heart 
Shall prove thy country and thy home. 

If thou go not — behold ! I die, 
And thou wilt lorn and lonely be ; 
And though thou art at home — at home 
As in a foreign-land thou'lt be. 



II. 



The hoar-frost fell in a night of spring, 
On the delicate blue-bell flowers it fell, 
And they were withered, and perished. 

A youth did love a maiden well, 
Softly together from home they fled, 
Nor father nor mother knew it. 

They wandered hither, they wandered thither, 
Their lot ne'er knew its lucky star, 
Undone they were, and perished. 



III. 

Above their grave a Linden grows, 
Birds sing, and through it the balm-breeze blows, 
And under it, on the emerald grass, 
The miller's son sits with his bonnie lass. 



74 JULIAN FANE. 

The breeze, it moans so soft and so weary, 
The birds they sing so sweet and so dreary, 
The garrulous lovers in silence sigh, 
They weep !— and themselves they know not why. 

N. G. page 134. 



FLUNKEYISM. 



Rich Folk are to be gained I fear 
Alone by flattest Flattery ; 
Money is flat, my little Dear, 
And it will flatly flattered be. 

With incense-censer and with shovel 
Serve thou the godlike, golden calves, 
In dust and dirt before them grovel, 
But, above all, praise not by halves. 

Bread is so dear in these our days ! 
Natheless at thy command is still 
The honied phrase ;— wherefore bepraise 
Ma3cenas' dog and feed thy fill. 

R. page 173 



THE HAUNTED KNIGHT. 

THERE lived onoe a knight who was silent with woe, 
His ashen cheeks farrowed with seams ; 
Tottering, swerving ami reeling he'd go, 
Quite lost in Ins dreary dreams. 

So wooden lie looked, so olumsy, so daft — 

The Bweet little maid i and the flowers they laughed 
As lie stumbled along with his dreams. 



UNPUBLISHED PIECES. 75 

In the dullest corner oft sat lie at home, 
With all human kind he had broken ; 
With arms outstretched through his room he would roam 
And never a little word spoken ! 
But when the midnight hour came round, 
A wonderful singing and ringing 'gan sound 
And a tap at the door came as token. 

And his beautiful love steals in on tip-toes — 
Flowing drapery floats from her arms ; 
She blushes and glows like a beautiful rose, 
Through her rich-jewelled veil peep her charms ; 
Adown her fair form golden tresses shower, 
Her sweet eyes glow with a sweetness of power — 
They sink in each other's arms. 

Her in his closest embrace the knight takes — 
And his stiff, wooden form takes fire, 
The pale cheek reddens, the Dreamer awakes, 
And his Spirit mounts higher and higher ; 
But she, she roguishly teazes him now, 
Casts her rich-jewelled veil o'er his eyes and his brow, 
And, playful, provokes his ire. 

Lo ! sudden, in Palace beneath the waves blue 
The charmed knight finds himself sitter ; 
He wonders — his eyes grow dazed at the view 
Of its sheeny glory and glitter ; 
But the Fairy is near him — she stands at his side, 
The knight he is Bridegroom, the Fairy is Bride, 
And her handmaids play on the Zither. 

So sweetly they sing, and so sweetly they play, 
And dance on their light feet airy ! 
The knight feels his senses passing away, 
And closer he clasps the Fairy — 
Sudden, the lights all fade into gloom ; 
And the knight sits alone in his lonely room, 
In his gloomy Poet's chamber. 

B. d. L. page 103. 



76 JULIAN FANE. 



THE PARSONAGE HOUSE. 

The crescented Moon of Autumn 
Forth from a white cloud peers ; 
Lonely and still in the church-yard 
The Parsonage house appears. 

The Mother reads in her Bible, 
The Son at the candle stares ; 
Drowsily lolls the elder, 
The younger daughter declares : 

" G-od knows the days be dull here, 
And the months how dull they be ! 
Only when some-one gets buried 
We get at something to see." 

The Mother looks up in answer, 
" Thou err'st, there have died but four 
Since the day they buried thy father 
There, at the old church-door." 

The elder daughter says, yawning, 
" I'll not starve here with you, 
To-morrow I'll to the Squire, 
He's rich, and loves me too." 

The Son breaks out in a hoarse laugh, 
" Three Sportsmen Lodge at the Dragon, 
.Money they make, and right gladly 
They'll beach me, the trick o'er a flagon." 

The Mother hurls the great Bible 
Sheer at his bony j<>wl : 
•■ Wouldst thou, God-forgotten, 
With thieving poachers prowl ! " 



UNPUBLISHED PIECES. 77 

They hear a tap at the window, 
They see two warning hands ; 
There stands the buried Father 
Dressed in his hood and bands. 

B. d. L. page 197. 



ES LIEGT DER HEISSE SOMMER. 

The golden glow of Summer 
Is on thy fair cheek still ; 
And in thy coy little heart, dear, 
Is all the Winter's chill. 

But this will change, believe me, 
Beloved as thou art, 
Winter will reign on thy cheek, dear, 
All Summer in thy heart. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



I. 



Thou art like some young flower 
So sweet, so pure, so fair ; 
I watch thee ;— and a Sadness 
Steals o'er me unaware. 

Methinks my hands, in blessing 
Above thy head should meet, 
Praying that God preserve thee 
So fair, so pure, so sweet 

B. d. L. page 215. 



78 JULIAN FANE. 



II. 



The world is so fair and the Heaven so blue, 
And the breezes so blandly their soft way pursue, 
And the flowers in the fields for kind looks sue, 
And glimmer and wink in the morning dew, 
And in happiness basking all men I view — 
And yet from the world and from Life I would flee, 
And down in the grave, Darling, nestle by thee. 

B. d. L. page 129. 



III. 

Ix the Xorth a lonely Pine-tree 
Stands on a bare, bleak height : 
He slumbers, snowcapped and frozen, 
Cloaked in a covering white : 

He dreams and dreams of a Palm-tree 
Which afar in the East doth stand, 
Mutely in solitude pining 
On a burning Table-land. 



B. d. L. page 131. 



IV. 

THERE livid a poor, old Monarch, 
Whose locks were grey, whoso heart was dried : 
Tin,' poor, unyouthful Monarch 
He took a youthful bride. 

There lived a comely Page too, 

Fair were his locks, his heart was green ; 
He bore hei- brain embroidered 
Behind tin youthful Queen. 



UNPUBLISHED PIECES. 79 

Yon know the ancient story ? 
It sonnds so sweet ; it sounds so drear ! 
They both mnst die !— the other 
To each was far too dear. 

N. G. page 28. 



V. 

The Cockneys in Sunday attire 
Are rambling about o'er the plains ; 
They shout and they skip and perspire 
And greet great Nature with pains. 

Their wondering tongues are describing 
How all things romantic appear ; 
Their long, long ears are imbibing 
The Sparrow's poor chitterings clear. 

But I — I darken my chamber, 
Black cloth o'er the casement I lay ; 
Some Ghosts, who my Being remember, 
Come to pay me a visit to-day. 

3Iy old, prime Passion retumeth, 
From Hades it comes forlorn ; 
It sits by my side and mourneth, 
And maketh my own heart mourn. 

B. d. L. page 135. 



VI. 

Sweet Fortune is a giddy girl, 
And loves in no place long to stay ; 
From off your brows she'll brush a curl. 
And kiss you quick and flit away. 



80 JULIAN FANE. 

But Dame Misfortune scorning* flurry, 
Herself to your embrace commits ; 
She says she's in no kind of hurry, 
And on your bed sits down and knits. 

R. page 118. 



VII. 

Tell me who first invented watches, 
The measure of time by momently scratches ? 
A shivering man with sorrow fraught. 
He sat through the winter-night and thought. 
Counting the nibbles of mice in the wail 
And the measured clicks of the woodworm small. 

Tell me who first did kisses discover ? 
The warm, glad lips of a happy Lover, 
Who kissed and, thoughtless, kissed away. 
'Twas in the beautiful month of May, 
And out of the Earth the wild flowers sprang, 
And the Sun he laughed, and the little birds sang. 

N. G. page 24 



VIII. 

Thou dainty Fisherman's-daughter, 
Paddle thy boat to the Land ; 
Come hither, and sit beside me, 
And chat with me, hand in hand. 

Come, lay thy head on my bosom, 
Nor all so fearful be ; 
Fearlessly, fair one, and daily 
Thou trustest yon boisterous Sea. 



UNPUBLISHED PIECES, 81 

My heart resembles the Sea, my girl, 
With its Storm and Ebb and Flow, 
And many a precious, priceless pearl 
Rests in its depths below. 

B. d. L. page 178. 



IX. 

As I, by chance, on a journey 
My Darling's family met, 
Her Mother, her sweet little sister, 
And Father all cried me " well-met.' ' 

And much of my health they questioned, 
And heartily bade me hail ; 
They said I had altered but little, 
Only my face looked pale. 

I asked after Aunts and Relations, 
After many a tedious ass ; 
And after the dear little puppy 
With his collar and bells of glass. 

And after my married Darling 
I asked, with a little delay, 
And kindly they told me in answer, 
She was in the family-way. 

I offered my compliments kindly, 
And lisped, with a pang of pain, 
That they should give her my greeting 
Again and again and again. 

The little girl cried, interposing, 
" Our puppy, with bells so fine, 
Grew a great dog, and went mad, sir, 
And had to be drowned in the Rhine." 



82 JULIAN FANE. 

The little one likens my Darling, 
And chiefly in her smile ; 
The very same eyes, the charming, 
That broke my heart erewhile ! 

B. d. L. page 174. 



This young gentleman, so gracious, 
G-reatly do I honor, Sirs ! 
Oft he treateth me to oysters, 
And to Rhinewine and Liqueurs. 

Neatly fit his coat and breeches, 
Neat his cravat and his shoe ; 
And so comes he every morning 
And he asks me how I do. 

Then he speaks of my attractions, 
My bon-mots, my wit, my passion, 
And assures me he will shortly 
Set me in the blaze of fashion. 

Then at many an evening party, 
With rapt visage spouteth he, 
Loud declaiming to the ladies 
My immortal poetry. 

Oh, what joy ! that this our Earth of 
Such a youth should still be bearer, 
Now, in these our days, when daily 
Good men rarer grow and rarer. 

B. d. L. page 229. 



UNPUBLISHED PIECES. 83 



XI. 



On my dark night a new star 'gins to roll, 
A star that smiles down comfort o'er my soul, 
And augurs me a happy lot — 
Dear Star, lie not ! 

As to the Moon upheaves the boisterous Sea, 
Even so my heaving soul, merry and free, 
Yearns to thy holy light afar — 
Lie not, Dear Star ! 

N. G. page 117 



XII. 

Where fall my tears, immediate 
The fairest flowers up-spring ; 
And in my sighs a chorus 
Of Nightingales sweet sing : 

And if thou love me, little one, 
I'll give thee all the flowers ; 
And thou shalt hear the nightingale 
Sing sweet among thy bowers. 

B. d. L. page 107 



XIII. 

In the marvellous merry month of May 
When all the young buds pouted, 
In mine own heart the flower of Love 
Unleafed itself and sprouted. 

<; -1 



St JULIAN FANE. 

In the marvellous merry month of May 
When all the wild birds chanted, 
I sang her the song of passionate hope 
Wherewith my whole soul panted. 

B, d. L. page 106, 



XIV. 

This shining Summer-morning. 
I through the garden walk ; 
The flowers they rustle and whisper^ 
But I in silence stalk. 

The flowers they rustle and whisper, 
And kindly my face they scan : 
" Ah ! be not hard on our Sister, 
Thou pale and sorrowful man ! " 



B. d, L. page 144, 



XV. 

Inquisitive, the Swallow 
Around us flies and dips, 
Because my ear so closely 
Is glued unto thy lips. 

Full fain would she discover 
The cause of all my blisses, 
And if my ear thou'rt feeding 
With syllables or kisses. 

Nor do I know precisely 
By which my soul is tingled ; 
The kisses and the syllables 
Are marvellously mingled ! 



N. G. page 51. 



UNPUBLISHED PIECES. 85 



XVI. 

I hold her long-lashed eyelids to. 
And kiss her lips and sigh ; 
Now will she teaze me, teaze and sue 
To know the reason why. 

At latest eve, at morning too, 
She seeks for some reply ; 
a Why dost thou hold my eyelids to, 
And kiss my lips and sigh ? " 

I'll not show cause for what I do p 
Myself I know not why ; 
I hold her long-lashed eyelids to, 
And kiss her lips and sigh. 

N. G. page 



XVIL 

If the nowers, the little ones, knew it, 
How wounded is my heart 1 
Then would they with me sorrow, 
And weep to heal my smart. 

And the Nightingales if they knew it, 
How lorn I am and sad ! 
They'd pour from dewy throttles 
A song of solace glad. 

And knew they of my sorrows, 
The stars in golden glee : 
The stars would from their Heaven 
Come down to comfort me. 



86 JULIAN FANE. 

All these, they cannot know it I 
One, only, knows my smart ; 
'Twas she herself disdained it, 
Disdained and broke my heart. 



B, d. L. page 122. 



XVIII. 

I with loving ditties angled 
For thy heart in playful sort, 
And, in mine own mesh entangled, 
Earnest now becomes my sport. 

But when thou, with playful titter, 
From my grave suit justly turnest — 
Fiends of hell my soul embitter 
And I shoot myself in earnest. 

B. d. L. page 222. 



XIX. 

The violets blue of her azure eyes, 
And the roses red of her cheeks pure dyes, 
And the lilies white of her hands likewise— 
They bud and they flower and blush full-blown,, 
And the cold little heart is withered alone. 

B. d. L. page 12& 



XX. 

And hast Thou now forgotten wholly 
That I possessed thy heart once solely ? 
Thy fair little heart so false and so sweet ? 
A fairer and falser methinks never beat. 



UNPUBLISHED PIECES. 87 

And hast thou forgotten the Pain and the Passion 
Which rent my poor heart in so cruel a fashion ? 
I know not — was Passion more great than the Pain ? 
Alas ! I know only that great were the twain. 

B. d. L. page 121. 



XXI. 

How shamefully thou hast treated me, 
From mortal ears I withhold it ; 
But I sailed far out on the deep blue Sea 
And there to the fishes I told it. 

I leave thee thy spotless name and brow 
On the firm-set Land alone ; 
For through the whole of the Ocean now 
Thy Infamy is known. 



N. G. page 58. 



XXII. 

Thy letter long, dear wronger, 
Excites no terror strong, 
Thou wilt not love me longer — 
And yet thy letter's long ! 

Twelve lines, all unerroneous, 
Close-crowded I espy ; 
That pen's more parsimonious 
Which gives a man " Good-bye.'' 



K". G. page 33. 



XXIII. 

Shadowy kisses, Love of shadows, 
Life of shadows, shadowy Fame ; 
Think 'st thou, foolish one, that all things. 
All-unchanged, remain the same ? 



88 JULIAN FANE. 

That which most we love and cherish 
Wanes and fades and dream-like flies, 
And our hearts Oblivion seizes, 
And a slumber seals our eyes. 

N. G. page 57. 



XXIV. 

Already her dull curtain dreary 
Wicked Night hath o'er us drawn ; 
Ah ! we feel our Souls grow weary. 
At each other gaze, and yawn. 

Thou grow'st old and I still older, 
Our sweet spring has blossomed by ; 
Thou grow'st cold and I still colder, 
As our Winter creepeth nigh. 



I 



Sweet things end in dreary fashion ! 
After Passion's sweetest pain 
Comes the pain without the passion — 
After life comes Death amain ! 

X. G. page 90 



XXY. 

Art thou really then so angry, 
Really so incensed with me ? 
I will tell all kinds of people 
Thou hast used me shamefully. 

Oh ! ye lips— ye lips ungrateful ! 
How can ye an ill word say 
Of the man who has so dearly 
Kissed you in a happier day ? 

B. d. L. page 240. 



UNPUBLISHED PIECES. 89 



XXVI. 

Since from me they took my bride, 
Laughter I have laid aside ; 
Many a dull wag grinds his chaff, 
But I, listening, cannot laugh. 

Ever since they made her flee, 
Weeping too is strange to me ; 
From my heart wells misery deep, 
But a tear I cannot weep. 

B. d. L. page 133. 



XXVII. 

First, I thought, " I cannot bear it ! 
Never, let me perish now," 
Yet I have both borne and bear it — 
Only do not ask me how. 



B. d. L. page 45. 



XXVIII. 

Bear with me, and use thy patience 
If in this my latest song, 
This my newest note, there echoes 
Something of an ancient wrong. 

Bear with me, for soon shall Silence 
Seal the mem'ry of my smart, 
And a fresher fount of music 
Gush from out the healed heart. 

B. d. L. page 212. 



90 JULIAN FANE. 



THE BATTLE-FIELD AT HASTINGS. 

Deep sighed the Abbot when the news 
Reached Waltham's courts that day, 
That piteously on Hastings' field, 
King Harold lifeless lay. 

Two Monks, Asgod and Ailric named, 
Dispatched he to the plain, 
That they might seek king Harold's corpse, 
At Hastings 'mongst the slain. 

The Monks they issued sadly forth, 
And sad their steps retrace : 
" Father, loathesome to us is the World, 
Fortune forsakes our race. 

" The Bastard, the base, lives Victor now, 
Fall'n is the Righteous-Brave ; 
Bands of armed robbers divide the land, 
And make of the Freeman a slave. 

" The raggedest Boor from Normandy 
Now lords it o'er Britain's Isle ; 
A tailor from Bayeux, gold bespurred, 
I saw one ride and smile. 

" Woe now to every Saxon born ! 
Ye Saxon Saints beware, 
Lest, Heaven itself unsafe, the scourge 
Pursue and spurn you there. 

" Now know we what disastrous doom 
That comet should forebode, 
Which erst, blood-red, through blackest Heaven 
On fiery besom rode. 



UNPUBLISHED PIECES. 91 

" At Hastings hath that evil star 
Its evil potent wrought ! 
Thither we went, to the battle-field, 
And 'mongst the slain we sought. 

" We sought to left, we sought to right, 
Till, every hope resigned, 
We left the field, and Harold the king 
His corpse we did not find." 

Asgod and Ailric so they spake ; 
His hands the Abbot clasped, 
Down sat, despairing, sunk in thought, 
Then sighed and said at last : 

" At Greenfield, near the Harper's Stone, 
In the wood's deepest dell, 
Lone in a lonely pauper-cot 
Doth swan-necked Edith dwell. 

" ' Swan-necked,' men named her — for that erst 
Her neck, of smoothest pearl, 
W T as swan-like arched — and Harold the king 
He loved the comely girl. 

" Her hath he loved and cherished and kissed, 
And, lastly, abandoned, forgot ; 
The years roll by — full sixteen years 
Have watched her widowed lot. 

" Brothers, to her betake yourselves, 
And with her back return 
To Hastings' field ; this woman's glance 
Will there the king discern. 

" Hither then to the Abbey-church 
Do ye the body bring, 
That we may yield it Christian rite, 
And for the soul may sing." 



92 JULIAN FANE. 

The Monks at midnight reached the cot 
Deep in the dark wood's hollow ; 
" Wake, swan-necked Edith, and forthwith 
Prepare our steps to follow ! 

" Fate willed the Duke of Normandy 
The fatal day should gain, 
And on the field at Hastings lies 
King Harold 'mongst the slain. 

" Come with us now to Hastings — there 
We'll seek the corpse of the king, 
And bring it back to the Abbey-church, 
As the Abbot bade us bring. 5 ' 

No word the swan-necked Edith spake ; 
Her cloak about her cast, 
She followed the Monks ; her grizzly hair 
It fluttered wild in the blast. 

Barefooted, poor wretch, she followed o'er marsh, 
Through brushwood and briar she flew : 
Hastings at daybreak they hardly reached, 
With its white chalk-cliffs in view. 

The fog that folded the battle-field, 
As 'twere in a snow-white shroud, 
Rose slowly, the ravens flapped their wings 
And horribly croaked and loud. 

Some thousand corpses there lay strewn, 
In heaps on the red earth grounded, 
Stripped-stark, beplundered, mangled and maimed, 
With carrion-horse confounded. 

The swan-necked Edith waded on 
Through blood with unsandalled foot ; 
Meanwhile like darts from her staring eyes 
The searchful glances shoot. 



UNPUBLISHED PIECES. 93 

She searched to left, she searched to right, 
And oft she turned unflurried, 
To scare the famished ravens off ; 
The monks behind her hurried. 

The whole drear Day had watched her search, 
The stars still see her seek ; 
Suddenly from the woman's lips 
Breaks shrill a terrible shriek : 

Discovered hath Edith the corpse of the king ! 
No longer need she seek ; 
No word she spake, she wept no tear, 
She kissed the pale, pale cheek. 

She kissed the brow, she kissed the lips, 
Her arms about him pressed, 
She kissed the deep wound blood-besmeared 
Upon her monarch's breast. 

And at the shoulder looked she too — 
And then she kissed contented 
Three little scars, joy- wounds her love 
In Passion's hour indented. 

Meanwhile the Monks from out the wood 
Some twisted branches bring ; 
This was the leafy bier whereon 
They laid their slaughtered king. 

They bore him towards the Abbej^-church 
Whose aisles his bones should cover ; 
The swan-necked Edith followed close 
The pale corpse of her lover. 

She sang the Burial-psalm in notes 
Of meek and childlike woe ; 
Dismal it sounded through the night— 
The muttering monks prayed low. 

R. page 21. 



CHAPTEE VI. 

Life at Vienna from 1851 to 1856. Attached to the Earl of Clarendon's 
Special Mission ; and present at Paris during the Congress of that 
year. Secretary of Legation at St. Petersburg, and life there 
from 1856 to 1858. Official Eeports. Baron Bruno w. Secretary 
of Legation and Embassy at Vienna from 1858 to 1865. Life at 
Vienna. Habits, occupations, characteristics. 

Julian Fane was transferred from the Mission at 
Berlin, and attached to the Mission at Vienna in the 
month of September, 1851. In the following year, in 
the month of September, the Duke of Wellington died ; 
and Julian accompanied his father to England in order 
to attend the funeral of the great Duke. The boy had 
always been a great favourite of the old hero, and had 
passed much of his childhood at Walmer and Strathfield- 
saye. The Duke delighted in his childish wit, and used 
often to chuckle over an answer given by the little 
Julian to some one who asked him if he knew the Duke. 
" Know him ? To be sure I do," said the child. " Why 
I'm his near relation, and very particular friend ! " 

The short time which Julian now passed in England 
among his old College friends, and occupied only with 
his little volume of early poems (published in the 
summer of 1852), was probably, to his naturally quiet 
temperament, a refreshing relief from the constant and 
fatiguing excitement of his Vienna life. To the Austrian 



MUSICAL COMPOSITIONS. 95 

capital he returned, however, very soon after the Duke's 
funeral. Amidst his employments there, as we have 
seen, he had taken up with great warmth the study of 
Heine ; and he now resumed with increased fervour his 
interest in the songs and ballads of that most lyrical of 
all modern poets. Many of them he set to music of his 
own, and many he sang with exquisite expression to the 
charming and well-known music of Vesque Puttlingen, 
better known by his assumed name of Hoven. About 
this time, too, Julian had taught himself to play with 
great perfection on the zither, a musical instrument 
peculiarly Austrian ; something between the harp and 
the guitar, and probably not very dissimilar in the 
character of its music from the classic cithara. It was 
an instrument adapted exclusively for Austrian airs ; and 
it was then the chief amusement of his leisure hours to 
play upon it the national music of Austria, of which he 
was extremely fond. 

In the year 1855, Lord Westmorland resigned his 
post, and retired into private life. His son Julian 
returned with him from Vienna, and remained that year 
in England. It will be remembered that the Crimean 
war was closed in 1856 by the fall of Sebastopol and the 
Congress of Paris ; at which England was represented 
by the Earl of Clarendon and Lord Cowley. In the 
February of this year, Julian Fane was attached to Lord 
Clarendon's Special Mission, and accompanied his Lord- 
ship to Paris, where he remained till the close of the 
Congress and the signature of the Treaties of 1856. It 
was on this occasion that I first became acquainted with 
him. 



96 JULIAN FANE. 

I was at the time attached to the Embassy at Paris, 
which was, of course, cooperating with Lord Clarendon's 
Extraordinary Mission, in the negociation of the Peace. 
My own official business, however, was then of a yery 
subordinate and mechanical kind, which seldom brought 
me into professional intercourse with Julian Fane, during 
his residence in Paris. It was in society that we met 
oftenest ; and I still vividly recal the strong sensation 
of admiring curiosity with which I first beheld, as a 
stranger, one who was destined to occupy, only a few 
years later, a place which death has left for ever vacant 
among the warmest affections of my life. My attention 
was attracted, charmed, and absorbed by the appearance 
of him immediately on entering the salon of a French 
lady at whose house we met for the first time ; and it 
was with a lively glow of flattered national pride, that I 
learned from our hostess that we were not only colleagues 
but also countrymen. 

There were assembled at that time in Paris all the 
most brilliant representatives, young and old, of 
European Diplomacy ; but, not excepting even the 
stately and majestic grace of Prince Orloff, I 
cannot remember among them all anyone whose appear- 
ance was so immediately or so irresistibly attractive as 
that of Julian Fane. 

After the conclusion of peace he was appointed 
Secretary of Legation at St. Petersburg. At the same 
time I was myself promoted to another post, and we did 
not meet again for three years. It was not without 
anxiety that Julian Fane's appointment to St. Petersburg 
was regarded by his mother. In reality he was at that 



LETTER OF BARON BRUNOW. 97 

time a strong man so far as strength consists of capacity 
for physical exertion. I have never met any young man 
whose physical vitality appeared to me so inexhaustible. 
Nor had his love of books at all superseded his boyish 
delight in field sports and all athletic exercises. In these 
he excelled no less than in all things else to which his 
attention was at any time heartily given. But his 
extreme thinness (the more striking from his great 
height*), added to the habitual pallor of his complexion, 
gave him the appearance of much delicacy : and it was 
with many fears as to the possible effect on his constitu- 
tion, of a climate so severe as the Russian, that Lady 
"Westmorland accompanied her son to Sheerness ; whence 
he embarked for St. Petersburg on the 16th of June, 1856. 
Her forebodings were happily unfulfilled. The climate 
appeared to agree with him ; and he liked his new place 
of habitation as well as he ever liked any place out of 
England, which was the country he preferred to all others. 
To England he returned two years later, in excellent 
health, and without having experienced a day's illness 
during his residence at St. Petersburg. Amongst the 
many admirable Reports which he addressed from St. 
Petersburg to the Government at home, there is one 
upon the trade of Russia which, shortly after it was laid 
before Parliament, elicited from Baron Brunow, the pre- 
sent Russian Ambassador in London, the following 
letter — 

"MON CHER AMI, 

"Mille et mille remercimens de votre aimable 
billet. ******** 

* It was 6 ft. 3 in. 



98 JULIAN FANE. 

" Je vais ecrire moi-meme a Lord Westmorland, pour 
lui faire mes apologies, comme vous dites en anglais. 
Mais j'ai encore un meilleur motif pour lui adresser 
quelques lignes ; et ce motif vous regarde personnettement. 
Je suis dans l'admiration de votre beau travail statistique 
sur la Eussie ! C'est un ouvrage remarquable, mon cher 
ami; il faut absoluraent que j'en fasse compliment a 
votre excellent pere. 

" Si j'avais prevu que vous seriez un jour de cette 
force, je crois que je vous aurais remis avec plus de 
confiance les renes entre les mains, quand vous me con- 
duisiez en phaeton a Walmer Castle ! 

" Mille amities 

de votre tres-devoue 

Brunow." * 

Thus between business and pleasure (with rare 
capacities for both), varying politics with poetry, and 
completing the study of books by the study of men and 
things : never too idle to be serious, never too busy to 
be gay, but sowing and reaping heartily the field of life 



* "My dear Friend, 

" A thousand thanks for your kind note. *****- I 
am going to write to Lord Westmorland myself, to make him my 
apologies, as you say in English. But I have a still better motive 
for addressing him a few lines, and this motive personally concerns 
you. I am full of admiration for your excellent statistical report about 
Russia. It is a remarkable work, my dear friend, and I must positively 
compliment your excellent father about it. Had I foreseen that you 
would one of these days come out so strong, I think I should have 
made over the reins to you with greater confidence that day when you 
drove me in your phaeton to Walmer Castle ! 



DEATH OF LORD WESTMORLAND. 99 

allotted to him by Destiny : Julian Fane continued to 
make the best of himself by making the best of the world 
as he found it, and to adorn a profession for which he 
was, indeed, eminently fitted, but which was never, I 
think, throroughly congenial to his tastes or aspira- 
tions. 

In the year 1858 he was transferred from St. Peters- 
burg to Vienna ; whither he now returned as Secretary 
of Legation. Here he was Charge d' Affaires from the 
August to the October of that year ; and was again in 
charge of the Mission, from the July to the October of 
1859, when he was summoned to his father's death-bed. 
It was in this year, and at Vienna, that I renewed my 
acquaintance with him. 

In the month of January, 1859, I was appointed to 
the post of First Paid Attache at Vienna, formerly held by 
Julian Fane. The year was that of Lord Cowley's Special 
Mission to the Austrian Emperor, and it was in casual 
company with this Mission, which, on my way to my 
new post, I met at Dresden, that I first entered within 
the ancient walls of Vienna. They have long since been 
pulled down ; and many other old things have dis- 
appeared with them from the Capital of the Empire of 
the Hapsburgs. 

The great Prince Metternich was then alive. Prince 
Paul Esterhazy (who had represented Austria in London 
during the youth of Lord Palmerston, when he and M. de 
Talleyrand were colleagues) was not only alive, but in 
vigorous health. Count Buol was then Imperial Chan- 
cellor and Minister for Foreign Affairs. Count Stephen 
Szechenyi, " the Great Magyar," was still in his strange 

ii 2 



100 JULIAN FANE. 

and tragic retirement, at a lunatic asylum, at Dobling. 
Count Andrassy, the present Hungarian Prime Minister, 
was an exile, and under sentence of death for high 
treason. The English Minister at Vienna was then 
Lord Augustus Loftus. When in 1860 the British 
Government decided on raising the Mission at Vienna (or 
rather restoring it) to its ancient rank, and making it an 
Embassy, Lord Augustus was appointed to the Mission 
at Berlin, and Lord Bloomfield to the Embassy at 
Vienna. At the same time, Julian Fane was promoted 
from the rank of Secretary of Legation to that of 
Secretary of Embassy, and left in this capacity at Vienna ; 
where he remained to the 30th of December, 1865. I was 
appointed Secretary of Legation at Copenhagen in the 
month of January, 1863 ; and the period of my greatest 
intimacy with Julian Fane was, therefore, only 
four years. During those four years, however, the 
daily and hourly intercourse between us was unin- 
terrupted. From almost the first moment of my arrival 
in Vienna to the last of those four unforgotten years of 
my life which it beautified and gladdened, his com- 
panionship became, and continued to be, for me the 
source of an ever increasing intellectual and moral 
delight. 

" Die schonen Tage in Aranjuez 
Sind nun zu Ende ! " 

They are gone, those years of happy intercourse, and 
gone for ever the beautiful and gracious presence that 
made them what they were : but along the lives of 
all who once lived in the sunlight of it, the bright- 



LIFE IN VIENNA. 101 

ness of that presence still shines out of the past, like 
the jewel which the Mexicans were wont to place 
amongst the ashes of the departed to typify the 
heart. 

Julian Fane's life at Vienna, during the whole of the 
time we were there together, was very different from 
what it had been in the days when he was Attache to 
his father's Mission. He had entirely ceased to go into 
the world; and his place in the society he had once 
adorned was vacant. Never, except on compulsory official 
occasions, did he quit the exclusive retirement in which 
it was his choice to live during the whole period of our 
intercourse. In every drawing-room and in every club 
he was sure of enthusiastic welcomes which he no longer 
cared to seek ; and it was only when he put on his 
diplomatic uniform that he ever revisited that world of 
which he had once been so conspicuous a member, and 
by which his occasional apparition was now greeted with 
a cordiality not altogether free from a certain curiosity 
inspired by the mysterious rarity of it. In this love of 
solitude there was no admixture of misanthropy. It was 
not the refuge of disappointed ambition, or satiated 
sensuality, or failing health, or enfeebled spirits. A 
temperament more thoroughly social, a humour more 
habitually cheerful, spirits more inexhaustibly efferves- 
cent, were never given to mortal creature. His society 
was like the sunshine of an eternal summer on a land 

" Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, 
Xor ever wind blows loudly." 

All in him was clear, and bright, and calm ; but never 



102 JULIAN FANE. 

monotonous ; a perpetual play of happy influences ; " a 
meeting of sweet lights without a name." 

He retained, at this time, the habit of late hours which 
he had contracted at an early age ; and I remember 
saying to him, with a laugh at the sight of our two faces 
in the looking-glass where they looked like a couple of 
lighted candles in broad daylight, when we once bid each 
other good-night at past seven o'clock on a summer 
morning, "It is only going to bed that either you or I 
will ever catch a sunstroke." He rarely rose before 
noon, and generally rose much later. He would then 
eat with great heartiness a substantial breakfast. After 
reading his letters, looking through the morning papers, 
and receiving any visitors who might then happen to 
call either on business or for the simple pleasure of 
seeing and talking with him, he would dress, and stroll 
down to the Legation ; close to which his own house 
was conveniently situated. He seldom remained there 
more than a few moments (except on Messenger days), 
as he was in the habit of doing all his official work at 
home ; and, although in the conduct of professional 
business he was a methodical as well as a hard worker, 
yet he had a wholesome impatience of that cumbrous 
bureaucratic harness which is a hindrance rather than a 
help to the performance of really effective work. From 
this hour of the day, that is to say from half-past three 
or four in the afternoon till the Vienna dinner hour of 
half-past five, it was his daily habit to walk briskly in 
almost all weathers ; and in those pleasant walks we were 
frequent, almost daily, companions. 

Yienna was still at that time a fortified town. Some- 



AMONG OUTLYING SUBURBS. 103 

times we walked all round the walls of it, as if it were 
Jericho, blowing the trumpets of our favourite authors. 
Sometimes, when the air was fresh and sunny, and gusts 
of far away things came to us from the neighbouring 
hills, still snowcapped, in the clear afternoons of the 
early spring, we would strike across the grassy glacis 
upon some voyage of discovery among the outlying 
suburbs of the city. Sometimes, in gloomier weather, 
we trudged by many a muddy street into the dim Jews' 
quarter of the town; peered into misty ragshops; haggled 
with curiosity dealers for the purchase of cracked tea- 
cups; and, like schoolboys popping air-guns at a rookery, 
let our fancies shoot here and there amongst the dark 
gabardined and bearded forms (those picturesque Vienna 
Jews of a day already gone by !) that flitted and babbled 
about us. Always, and everywhere, something seen in 
the course of these pleasant walks remained for ever 
afterwards identified in my memory with some humorous 
anecdote, some graceful fancy, some thoughtful observa- 
tion, or witty word of him whose companionship was all 
their charm. To waste, in visiting less gifted mortals, 
an afternoon which might be thus delightfully employed, 
was out of the question. The staff of our Vienna 
Mission was at that time composed of some half-a-dozen 
young men who were all remarkable for their agreeable 
social qualities and high-bred manners; all of them 
cordially attached to each other and harmoniously work- 
ing together ; and all of them worthy representatives of 
a social type which is not very likely, under existing 
arrangements of the Diplomatic Service, to reappear in 
the ranks of it. The perfect harmony which then 



104 JULIAN FANE. 

prevailed amongst the members of this Mission, as well 
as between them and their chief, was greatly promoted 
by the central influence of Julian Fane. His presence 
amongst us was incompatible with any kind of vulgarity, 
ill-temper, or coarseness. It effectually guaranteed the 
Minister against the possibility of disrespect on the part 
of 'his subordinates, whilst at the same time it imper- 
ceptibly impressed upon him the necessity of courtesy 
and consideration in his intercourse with them. This 
was the best security for efficiency in the general work 
of a Mission, every one of whose members had a corporate 
pride in the high character of it, and was animated by a 
sense of the obligation which is proverbially ascribed to 
noblemindedness. "We were all of us bachelors in those 
days ; and when we did not dine at the table of our chief 
(where we did dine very frequently), it was our wont to 
dine together either at some restaurant, or else in each 
other's lodgings; most often in those of Julian Fane. 
His temperament made him lavishly hospitable. He 
carried into the consideration of all matters connected 
with cellar and kitchen the same exquisitely fastidious 
taste that gave to his general character such affluent 
aesthetic susceptibilities. No man better knew how 
either to order or appreciate a good dinner. And how 
pleasant they were, those merry little dinners at his 
house ! How careful the cookery, how easy the conver- 
sation ! the wine so choice and old, the wit so young and 
fresh, and both so unstinted ! Dinners of this kind are 
only possible in the pure light air of foreign life. In 
England we do not understand them, nor would it profit 
us if we did. In our heavy atmosphere, loaded, as it is, 



AFTER-DINNER TALKS. 105 

with so much moral, as well as material, carbon, both 
soul and body crave a stronger stimulant ; and it is only 
the intoxication of party passion, or personal ambition, or 
fierce speculation, that can exhilarate our jaded powers of 
enjoyment. We even laugh in a hurry, as though the 
end of the world were at hand, and might catch us with 
the fool's-cap on. There is, in London, a feverish 
competition for the manufacture of jokes at so much per 
week ; and no wonder that these poor jokes come into the 
world tired before they are born. 

Those lounging, early after-dinner talks, in that little 
bachelor boudoir (of which the memory of Julian Fane 
so vividly recalls the image to my mind ; with its pretty 
chintzes, and its flowers, and its piano, as well as its 
books and dispatch boxes, and all so fragrant with the 
fresh fumes of the lightest Turkish tobacco) ; those talks 
interspersed with snatches of music and song, or re- 
citations of verse or prose ; and broken up so soon in 
order not to miss the overture to the new Opera or the 
first act of the new Play ; — how impossible to fancy 
anything of the kind under the solemn smoke of our 
business-burdened London ! 

The Vienna evening begins for all the Vienna world 
at the Opera or the Theatre ; both of them excellent 
because both of them are wisely maintained and con- 
trolled by the State, as great schools for the education of 
the cesthetic sentiment in all classes of society. And at 
both of these great schools Julian Fane was a constant 
attendant. It was not till about midnight that his own 
evening began. Then, whoever might be so fortunate as 
to find him alone, in dressing gown and slippers, at his 



106 JULIAN FANE. 

own fireside, a cigar in his mouth and a book on his 
knee, was sure to find him in the full perfection of his 
singular attractiveness. 

The nights which I have thus so often passed in tete- 
a-tete with Fane (long nights which yet seemed so 
short !) are among the pleasantest recollections of my life. 
But I despair of succeeding in any attempt to describe 
what constituted the peculiar delight of them. It was 
like playing on a musical instrument which is never out 
of tune, and every one of whose keys renders to the 
lightest touch the exact note sounded from any particular 
part of a great orchestra which the player may happen 
to be thinking of. 

Sometimes, the last new philosophical treatise, or the 
last new poem, or a new novel or essay, would start a 
long sparkling train of enthusiastic, but not undiscrim- 
inating, criticism. Sometimes a doubt suggested as to 
the accuracy of some casual Greek quotation would float 
the conversation far away over the illimitable sea of 
Hellenic literature, where his enthusiasm would keep it 
for hours hovering between Tragedians and Idyllists — 

" Like long-tailed birds of Paradise 
That float thro' heaven and cannot 'light." 

Occasionally the disputed derivation of some German 
word, or the style of some popular ballad, would send 
him rambling into the vast Teutonic Forest far enough 
to stumble on Lindwurm asleep under the lime tree 
destined to avenge his death. Often some question of 
current politics would carry us all through the night. 
In every subject the freshness and vivacity of his interest 



QUALIFICATIONS FOR PRACTICAL LIFE. 107 

was always delightful. He was not an original thinker ; 
and I cannot recal any subject in which the curiosity of 
his mind had penetrated beyond, or the independence 
of it refused allegiance within, the frontier line laid 
down for opinion by the most influential intellects of his 
time. But if he was never in excess of the highest 
contemporary intellectual average in matters of opinion, 
and never in antagonism with it, neither was he ever 
below it. In practical life even the most conscientious 
and cultivated minds must be content to accept on 
authority the foundation for a great many of their 
opinions. They have not time to dig and delve, and lay 
stone upon stone, in the slow preparation of an edifice 
which is needed for the immediate transaction of 
thought's daily business. All they can do is to employ 
the best reputed builders ; and this absence of all 
intellectual eccentricity would have greatly favoured his 
career, had Julian Fane devoted his faculties to English 
public life. He would have passed among politicians 
(and justly) for one of those men who grow with the 
general growth of opinion, and are best fitted for the 
current political business of their age ; because the 
current never either carries them beyond, or leaves them 
behind, the point of ^iew already reached and accepted 
by the majority of well-educated and open-minded men. 
I should, however, ill describe the charm of intimate 
intercourse with Julian Fane, if I omitted from the 
description of it the pathos of his music and the 
humour of his mimicry. It was sometimes my chance 
to find him silently owerflowing with the hoarded fun of 
something in the day's occurrence, or in the character or 



108 JULIAN FANE. 

conduct of one of our acquaintances, which had strongly 
touched his satiric fibre. Then, up he would jump, 
welcoming the occasion of my visit to relieve his sense of 
humour without wounding the feelings of any one ; and, 
too impatient for the shortest explanatory prologue, 
would act before me to the life, the scene or the man he 
was thinking of, with a rare perfection in the perception 
and reproduction of the ludicrous. Perhaps a few 
moments later he would be at the piano playing and 
singing his own compositions with a feminine tenderness 
of sentiment and delicacy of expression which were 
indescribably enchanting. 

I remember an occasion when many of Julian Fane's 
.happiest qualities were simultaneously illustrated (his 
literary enthusiasm, his sly fun, and his supreme good- 
nature and dislike to give pain) in the course of a 
conversation at which I was present with some other of 
his friends. He had been speaking of the powerful, 
almost overwhelming, but purely sensuous, impression 
often made upon himself by the choice selection and 
rhythmic arrangement of words in prose ; an impression 
quite independent of the meaning, and wholly due to the 
sound, of such words. All present professed to have 
experienced the same sensation, and each began to quote, 
or mention, to the point some supposed masterpiece of 
prose expression. Particular passages from the prose of 
Milton, Cowley, Sir Thomas Browne, Euskin, Hazlitt, 
De Quincey, and Landor were cited as examples. One 
man quoted Senancour, and another George Sand. An 
elderly gentleman of our party, who affected a fastidious 
taste in literature, and was gifted by nature with a 



TRIBUTE FEOM MR. ELWIN". 109 

sepulchral gravity of countenance, and the deepest bass 
voice that ever lodged in human lungs, had been un- 
warily drifted by Fane's overflowing animation away 
from his moorings in the safety of a stately silence ; and, 
just as the subject of the conversation was used out, and 
the conversation itself at a pause, a voice which seemed 
to issue from a fathomless profundity of soul, ex- 
claimed, "Ah, my dear Julian, no one is more susceptible 
than I am to the influence you have so well described, 
and I am never more powerfully affected by it than when 
perusing the despatches of the late Duke of Wellington." 
A glance from Julian Fane suppressed the incipient 
laughter which was about to overwhelm the speaker, and, 
turning gravely to his sympathising friend, he answered 
with as much good nature as presence of mind, iC Ah, my 
dear ! how well we understand each other ! " 

I fear that throughout this chapter I have sadly failed 
to reproduce in the imagination of its readers the image 
of Julian Fane, such as it remains in my own memory of 
the time I am recording. Fortunately, however, his 
character as it then was, in the full flower of his early 
manhood, has been admirably delineated in a few words 
by a great critic and a great man of letters, whose appre- 
ciation of it is the best evidence of its worth and beauty. 
The following letter is from Mr. Elwin : 

" You ask me to try and convey my impressions of 
Julian, and unfortunately, it is impossible for me to 
describe him in words as vivid as the picture in my mind. 
He had a combination of delightful qualities, which 
intermingled or took their turn, with a native ease that 
redoubled the charm. He was rich in the literature of 



110 JULIAN FANE. 

many lands, and no subject had a greater, zest for him ; 
but, unless the conversation turned to it naturally, he 
never said a word about books. He had an inexhaustible 
fund of racy unhacknied anecdote ; but it was always 
drawn forth by the occasion, and no one could aim less 
to be a teller of good stories. He was an exquisite 
mimic, but never used the faculty for the purpose of 
exhibiting his skill ; and he only employed it in snatches 
to give life and reality to a description. He had a 
fertile vein of humour which brightened all his conversa- 
tion ; but he never looked out for opportunities to make 
a jest, and his sallies were just a glancing touch and 
away again. Everything which fell from him was spon- 
taneous and genuine, and was untainted with a trace of 
effort or ostentation. In the midst of his play of know- 
ledge and intellect, there was one preeminent character- 
istic. He had not the smallest particle of envy, malice, 
or rivalry ; and though he spoke his opinions without 
reserve, there always appeared in his very censure an 
absolute freedom from ill-nature. I never saw an indica- 
tion that he had a single drop of gall in his composition. 
" The circumstances of his life had obliged him to 
direct his thoughts to public affairs, and he had reflected 
upon them largely. Yet his true passion was for 
literature, which he had studied with fervour ; and he 
was equally familiar with the old and the new. He was 
not better versed in Shakespeare and Milton, than in 
Tennyson, Browning, and Carlyle. His relish for these 
last three moderns was intense. He entered into the 
inner spirit of their works, and was very felicitous in 
developing the characteristics of their genius. His dis- 



WHY NO SUFFICIENT MEMORIAL OF HIM. Ill 

position came out strongly in his literary judgments. 
His whole bent was to admiration ; and while he had a 
distinct perception of defects, his mind always fastened 
upon beauties, and revelled in them. 

" His manners, like everything else about him, 
reflected his disposition. They were winning beyond 
measure from their ease, kindness, and cheerfulness. 
They seemed in themselves to be a language, and it was 
the language of benevolence, and good will. Every 
cottager and village child understood it in a moment ; 
and as he talked with them, they invariably felt, c He is 
a friend.' 

" He would have stamped his mind on his writings, if 
his profession had not absorbed the pick of his day. 
He could not satisfy his fastidiousness unless he devoted 
his whole strength to any literary undertaking ; and he 
was seldom tolerant of the compositions he struck off 
hastily in the leavings of his time. His extreme delight, 
too, in the labours of others, interfered with his own. 
When the hour of leisure arrived he could not resist the 
fascination of his favourite authors. Hence there can be 
no sufficient memorial of him now ; and even those who 
knew him best must be content to describe the fruit of 
which they alone have tasted the flavour." 



CHAPTER VII. 

■"Tannhauser," and other Poems, written at Vienna. Study of 
Shakespeare's Sonnets. Writings after that model. Poems to 
his Mother. 

About the time I have been speaking of, Eichard 
Wagner, the poet and composer of what has been 
ironically termed " The c Zukunfts Musik,' " or " Music 
of the future/' frequently visited Vienna ; and I think it 
was at my own house that Julian Fane first made his 
acquaintance. With Wagner's music Fane was already 
familiar. Art is a ion enfant ; and in music, as in 
poetry (more perhaps in music than in poetry) there is 
abundant supply for the satisfaction of the most various 
tastes. The ear that is callous to Beethoven may be 
agreeably titillated by Verdi ; and vice versa. In neither 
case is there any cause for pride or shame. The little 
boy who, when asked whom he loved best, Papa or 
Mama, frankly replied that he preferred Mutton-chops, 
is infinitely more to be respected than the juvenile 
humbug whose ready-made pretty answer to such a ques- 
tion is safe from censure. If critics would be content to 
criticize only what they thoroughly understand and are 
capable of admiring in art, instead of criticizing chiefly 
what they ostentatiously profess themselves unable to 
understand, and quite incapable of admiring, the litera- 



USE AND ABUSE OF CRITICISM. 113 

ture of criticism would be more helpful and more valu- 
able than it is. Critics are intellectual nutcrackers 
which the economy of labour has placed at the service of 
the public. It is not their business to reject all the hard 
nuts. If the nuts were softer we could extract their 
kernels without the aid of any such instruments. Who- 
ever can stimulate and expand the general capacity for 
aesthetic enjoyment is a benefactor. But the natural 
physiology of the human mind is sufficiently contractile 
to the touch of unaccustomed sensations, and needs no 
critical encouragement in the indulgence of its instinctive 
indolence. Unfortunately, however, those to whom the 
public looks for illumination in all matters of art, appear 
to be persuaded that you cannot keep one candle alight 
without trying to snuff out all the others. There is a 
story told of two post-boys, who, in the exercise of their 
calling, encountered each other on the public highway. 
Each was conducting a post-chaise ; and in each post- 
chaise there happened to be a Jew. The post-boys 
quarrelled as they passed alongside of each other : and 
one of them, meaning to lash his comrade, missed his 
aim, and whipped the Jew in the post-chaise which his 
comrade was driving. " Ah," cried the other indignant, 
" since you whip my Jew, Fll whip your Jew." So the 
two post-boys laid about them ; whipped their respective 
Jews half dead ; and the post-boy whose Jew at the end 
of this vicarious infliction was left the least dead of the 
two, considered that he had gained a great victory over 
the proprietor of the other Jew. Art fares hardly better, 
in the person of its suffering representatives, at the hands 
of the rival critics who encounter each other whilst con- 



114 JULIAN FANE. 

ducting each his own protege along the high road to 
immortality. Fortunately for the happiness of himself, 
and the comfort of those about him, Julian Fane had a 
large catholicity of taste in art. His appreciation of 
Eossini and Mozart did not render him incapable of 
appreciating the more theatrical genius of Meyerbeer ; 
and his appreciation of Meyerbeer's brilliancy of dra- 
matic effect did not diminish his admiration of Wagner's 
greater intensity of dramatic conception. 

The little poem of Tannhauser which, whilst at Vienna, 
he published under a feigned name, and which was 
written in conjunction with myself, grew naturally out 
of his enthusiasm for the genius he recognized, and his 
grateful sense of the emotional satisfaction he enjoyed, 
in Wagner's great opera of Tannhauser ; which prompted 
the composition, and furnished the story, of it. 

This poem was neither written nor published as a 
serious production ; but rather as an intellectual (or, if 
you will, mechanical) tour de force ; in which the style 
and spirit of the Tennysonian Idyl had been purposely 
imitated as the readiest and most popular vehicle for the 
utterance of impressions rendered vivid by an intense 
enjoyment of the music which it was the object of the 
poem to translate into words. 

The book was published under a pseudonym, and 
every care was taken in the composition of it to avoid 
whatever appeared likely to betray its real origin and 
authorship. But the pseudonym of Neville Temple, 
adopted by Julian Fane, was composed from his family 
motto, "Ne vile fano;" and some of his friends (of 
whom, I think, Lord Eussell was the first), remembering 



THE POEM OF TANNHAUSER. 115 

the motto, ingeniously guessed the secret. For my own 
part, I must say that the failure of the precautions taken 
to keep secret the authorship of this little book was very 
disappointing, when I found myself identified with the 
serious pretensions attributed to a poem which was 
regarded by the authors of it simply as a literary sport 
in mask and domino ; and not as any adequate represen- 
tation of the character in which either of them would 
greatly care to appear before the public on behalf of any 
serious literary efiort. It is obvious that, in the compo- 
sition by two writers of a single homogeneous narrative 
poem, if either of the two were to give free scope to his 
own idiosyncrasy the result would be incongruous and 
discordant. It was therefore necessary that they should 
adopt for common use, some style more or less in common 
vogue, appropriate to pathetic narrative, and sufficiently 
popular to form, as it were, a neutral ensign under which 
to sail without hoisting their own colours. The Term 
rima was too unfamiliar, and not sufficiently adapted to 
the conditions of joint composition. There remained the 
Spenserian stanza, the Chaucerian couplet, and the blank 
verse brought by Mr. Tennyson to the highest perfection 
as an instrument for narrative. The choice between 
these various styles was determined by Fane's enthusias- 
tically appreciative familiarity with every characteristic 
of the structures respectively given to blank verse by 
those two great masters of it, Milton and Tennyson. 
The experiment was suggested and commenced by Julian 
Fane ; who started it with a certain number of lines, and 
passed these on to his fellow workmen, for the addition 
of so many more, to be completed before their next meet- 

i 2 



116 JULIAN FANE. 

ing. The charm of the undertaking was in the occasions 
it afforded for these pleasant meetings. And thus, a 
tour de role, by alternate contributions to a structure 
built on neutral ground, this little poem was rapidly 
completed in the course of a few evenings. 

It is, however, (for the reasons already stated) no fair 
or adequate specimen of Julian Fane's poetic faculty at 
the time when it was written, though it may still be 
referred to with satisfaction and pleasure for that larger 
portion of it which is his composition. But amongst 
other poems written by him during that period of his 
life, there are some which I esteem myself fortunate in 
being able to rescue from the oblivion to which his own 
modesty would perhaps have consigned them had his 
life been prolonged. These fully justify the opinion 
expressed by Mr. Elwin, that Julian Fane " would have 
stamped his mind on his writings, if his profession had 
not absorbed the pick of his day." I am persuaded that 
every competent judge of an extremely difficult, and 
rarely successful form of verse, will immediately recog- 
nize in them not only merit of a high order, but ample 
evidence of an original faculty which, had he lived to 
cultivate it in the leisure of his later life, might have 
enriched the literature he so reverently loved, and so 
assiduously studied. 

The sonnet, of all forms of verse, lends itself most 
readily to the use of those who desire to give to a 
commonplace sentiment the force of an original utterance, 
and to invest a comparatively small amount of thought 
with a very large amount of aesthetic effect. But, for 
this very reason, it is a form of verse which most severely 



UNPUBLISHED SONNETS. 117 

tests the art of the poet. It admits of no mediocrity. 
It must be written with the fist instead of the finger ; 
and yet with a delicacy of manipulation of which none 
but the finest and most skilful finger is capable. The 
number of those poets who have succeeded in the com- 
position of it is exceedingly small, belonging to the first 
rank only ; and even here the differences are great. 
Masterly as are the sonnets of Milton, Wordsworth, or 
Keats, those of Shakespeare haye a peculiar poetical 
physiology which places them quite apart, constituting a 
separate group, related to, but essentially differing from, 
all the others. Turning away from the more ordinary 
form, Julian Fane went back to this of Shakespeare ; he 
loved and studied Shakespeare's sonnets till he became 
saturated with the spirit of them ; and the following 
series, written by him after his splendid model, mark an 
astonishing progress in the development of his poetic 
faculty, when we compare them with the selections from 
his early poems which are printed in a preceding 
chapter of this Memoir. They will usher in appro- 
priately those later and yet finer examples of the same 
form to which a special reference has been already made. 



SONNETS. 



If ever I, whose jealous care is bent 
To guard thine eyes from taint of any tear, 
To keep the current of thy calm content 
Fair-flowing, and of every trouble clear — 



118 JULIAN FANE. 

If ever I, by language or by look, 

By seeming slight of a discursive eye, 

By heedless words for heedful speech mistook, 

Or thought conjectured in a thoughtless sigh, 

Have yieldfed thee but briefest taste, dear heart, 

Of Love's sharp doubt whereon I daily feed, 

I wronged myself most — lending thee that smart 

From which to guard thee is my chief est heed. 

Oh ! who that feels Love's fangs but must delight 
To save the soul he loves from Love's despite. 



When in dark hours my wakeful thoughts do sum 
The tears and troubles of a parted day, 
Or else of pale Calamity to come 
Conjecture the faint features with dismay — 
Life seems so full of anger and of scorn, 
So scant of pleasure, prodigal of pain, 
That I would flee the wrathful fates unborn 
And turn me to my Mother-Earth again : 
To die were sweet, to lose Love's lasting sadness, 
But sad it were to lose Love's seldom sweet ; 
Love deals a death for every hour of gladness 
But quickens that he tramples under feet : 

Oh ! Love, 'tis dying — with thee to draw breath, 
To die without thee were a double death. 



Where thy kind looks enkindle the bright air, 
And every flower smells better for thy breath, 
How sweet seems Life, how amiable, fair ! 
And, oh how fierce the armed Terror, Death : 



UNPUBLISHED SONNETS. 119 

But when thy face, as sometimes Summer's pride 
Is rack'd with clouds and lash'd with pitiless rain, 
Lets all its fairness in a frown subside, 
And all its Love grows shrouded in disdain — 
Then would I flee — since most unkind thou art — 
From Life— a Fury frenzied with despair, 
To Death, young- Death, not armed with any dart, 
But crowned with poppies, who is mild and fair : 

Enchantress ! at the changing of whose breath 
Dear Life grows hateful, — lovely, loathsome Death. 



IV. 

Fain would I flee, when thou unkindest art, 

From Life — a Fury, frenzied with despair, 

To Death, young Death, not armed with any dart, 

But crowned with poppies, who is mild and fair : 

But when, by late remorsefulness subdued, 

Thou look'st contrition on some graceless deed, 

And, all with sweet submissive tears bedewed, 

Thy penitential eyes for pardon plead — 

Then, while thy kind looks kindle the bright air, 

And purple earth with paradisal blooms, 

Life, changed to Loveliness, looks mild and fair, 

And Death, grown terrible, his dart resumes : 

What can I name thee but Enchantress still, 
Who Life and Death dost beautify at will ? 



v. 

What could he do, the faint and fluttering bird 

Thou holdest in the hollow of thy hand, 

If, to some freak of sudden frenzy stirr'd, 

Thou dashed'st him to earth where thou dost stand ? 



120 JULIAN FANE. 

Nay, if the wildness of a wanton whim 

Should prompt fchy barbarous hand to score his eyes, 

Or shed the plumage from each shuddering limb, 

What could the little captive with his cries ? 

He might not save himself by brittle beak 

Nor tiny talons in thy palm incised ; 

And if, unloved, he loved thee, and could speak, 

Oh, what would profit him a plaint despised ? 

Since, tortured, helpless, and unloved, as he, 
I plead for pity, and find none in thee. 



Can I esteem thee base and love thee well, 
And love thee base nor lose my self-esteem ? 
When most my thoughts on thy demerits dwell 
I strive to think they are not what they seem : 
Thy falsehood is the unflattery of truth, 
And thy disloyalty is faith belied, 
Thy lack of charity is slandered ruth, 
Thy coldness modesty mistook for pride ; 
Thy miscalled scorn is like disdain no whit, 
Nor thy dissemblance semblative of fraud — 
They do but seem so to a fro ward wit 
That loves not, even whom it loves to laud : 

Thy merits only do I judge aright, 

Thy faults are failings born of my despite. 



Oh ! thro' what spell do I subserve a power 
By forceful fraud usurped upon my soul, 
And, once so proud to rise, now prone to lour, 
Do hug oppression that did hate controul, 



UNPUBLISHED SONNETS. 121 

And both afflictions and affronts sustain 

Nor yet rebel against my wretched state, 

I that have scorned the scorn of Pride's disdain 

And never bowed before the frown of Fate, 

But held my front to whatsoever woes 

And 'gainst beleaguering ills have stood at bay, 

Have blow for blow requited on my foes 

And borne me like a man in Fortune's fray ? 

Love, that unmans me, — knows my bated cheer 
And the blind bully flouts me without fear. 



'Tis true, I have misused thee in my speech 
By seldom speaking what I oft forebore ; 
The truant tongue sometimes will over-reach 
Prudence that watches at his prison door ; 
And sometimes Pride will overbear and break 
The laws by Patience for his check designed, 
And will assault Love's loyalty and make 
A chaos in the kingdom of the mind ; 
Then in wild insurrectionary rout 
Against thee will my rabble thoughts rebel, 
And long-gagged Indignation will cry out, 
And Grief her tocsin in thy ears will knell : 

Till Love, thy regent, doth the rout refute, 

And slavish thought and servile tongue grow mute. 



As one who, conscious of an enemy's eye, 
But loth to look his foeman in the face, 
With strait regards peruseth earth or sky, 
Shunning disaster for a little space ; 



122 JULIAN FANE. 

So outward turns my mind its strenuous glance, 
Fearing to front a thought that dwells within — 
So from my judgment looks my heart askance, 
Seeking from wrath a brief reprieve to win : 
For still 'tis sweet— how sweet a boon of grace, 
Sad heart that shudderest at thy doom, declare — 
Yet for one hour to shun the accursed face 
Of thought that shows her foul who seems so fair : 

Dear respite of the doom that comes, I know, 
When Love in Thought discerns his deadly foe. 

This series was never completed. Here is another 
poem, dated October, 1865. 



OAK AND FERN. 

1 See now, this fern, cut near the root, reveals 
The semblance of an oak enfibred there." 

Old Play. 



Beaeing his image in her heart ; 
Who once to her was all in all, 
A shade to screen her from the heat, 
A shelter from the storm ; 
Fiercely against whose mighty form 
The bellowing tempest vainly beat, 
And aU the winds would brawl ; 
Whose pleached branches had the power 
To tame the fierce rain to a shower 
And make the whirlwind musical ; 
Who made the angry noon seem sweet, 
As thro' his foliaged arms would f aU 
The meUow'd light ambrosial 
Upon her — lowly at his feet. 



UNPUBLISHED POEM. 123 



Bearing his image in her heart ; 

As here within her gaze he grew 

With leafy hands outstretch' d to love her 

And lure her to his side, 

Who stood in all his kingly pride 

So near, and yet so far above her, 

The greatest that she knew ; 

Till down the dreadful axe descended 

That clove his life in twain, and rended 

All his pride, and overthrew. 

Hence, where she may not discover, 

Beyond her simple ken and view, 

They bore him ; but her heart keeps true 

The picture of her parted lover. 



Bearing his image in her heart ; 

The image of his leafy pride, 

The semblance of the shape he wore 

When he stood by her side : 

Whilst haply he, transform'd, away 

In Carabee or far Cathay 

Now breasts the billowy tide, 

Bears Victory's flag above the roar 

Of guns, where some high cause is tried, 

Or, piled with grain of gold, may glide 

In peace along the Libyan shore. 



Bearing his image in her heart ; 
Some woman left alone to pine, 
Who bears the likeness of her mate 
Limn'd in her tender breast ; 
The face she knew, the form she press'd, 
The hand she clasp 'd, the lips that late 



124? JULIAN FANE. 

Had kiss'd and calTd her ' mine ' ; 
The image of her darling dead. 
Not of that glory-circled head, 
And seraph-form divine, 
Which haply guards the golden gate 
Of Truth against the Arch-foe's line, 
Or stands expectant at the shrine 
Where souls disjoin'd for union wait. 

Of the poems annually addressed by Julian Fane to his 
mother, on each occasion of her birthday, I have already 
spoken. The series, begun at a very early age (when he 
was yet a child), and continued without interruption to 
the last year of his life, would, if printed, fill a tolerably 
large volume ; it would contain a quite extraordinary 
variety of poetry composed in all kinds of metres (odes, 
songs, sonnets, and blank verse), all on the same theme ; 
nor would any other memorial of him preserve, with a 
better chance of duration, so many beautiful charac- 
teristics of his nature and his genius. Perhaps the best 
of these votive poems, however, are those which were 
written in the few last years of his life. Among them 
are a series of sonnets to which I have already made 
special reference, written whilst he was at Vienna, and to 
these I must limit what I now print. 

AD MATEEM. 

(Vienna, March 13, 1862.) 



This day that, like a jubilant herald clad, 

Rises, the bright recorder of thy birth, 

Trumpets a blast of joy that leaves me sad 

To think how great thy good, how small my worth f 



AD MATREM. 12i 

Thou, of this human garden the sole Queen, 
Tair to men's eyes and in the face of Heaven, 
Bearest thine outward fair but as a screen 
To that best beauty that within lies hidden ; 
Love, Truth, and Charity — these seraphs three 
Make up the fragrance of the soul, and these 
Which with the sister graces dwell with thee, 
Do more delight than all the graces please. 

The flower's best beauty is of sweet scents rife, 
And thy best praise lies in thy perfumed life. 



But I, who trail my wild growth at thy feet, 
Drawn to thy neighbourhood by love too dear 
That shuns a distance, tho' it were more meet, 
As making less my lowliness appear, 
Bask in thy smile, and seek no light but thine, 
Nor any beauty but from thee reflected, 
Crlad but of thy dear gladness which is mine, 
And proud of love by thy love not rejected. 
Near thee, annext by memory, I can dream 
The world is free of falsehood and disdain, 
As, looking in thy face, who would not deem 
Truth true, Love loyal, Charity humane ? 

So thou but love me still without alloy 
Earth seems a paradise and life pure joy. 



Oft, in the after days, when thou and I 
Have fallen from the scope of human view, 
When, both together, under the sweet sky 
We sleep beneath the daisies and the dew, 
Men will recall thy gracious presence bland, 
Conning the pictured sweetness of thy face ; 
Will pore o'er paintings by thy plastic hand, 
And vaunt thy skill, and tell thy deeds of grace ; 



126 JULIAN FANE. 

Oh may they then, who crown thee with true bays ? 
Saying " What love unto her son she bore ! " 
Make this addition to thy perfect praise 
" Nor ever yet was mother worshipt more ! " 

So shall I live with thee, and thy dear fame 
Shall link my love unto thine honour' d name. 



But be the date of thy sweet setting far ! 
Distant the night be, and delayed that sorrow 
Which, weeping thine eclipse, my morning star, 
Will bid me follow thee ere dawn the morrow ! 
For what to me were this mad masque and vain^ 
This sublunary tumult of sad noise, 
Deprived my privilege to share thy pain 
And be partaker of thy passing joys ? 
O, if thou sett'st some value on my days 
Prolong thine own ; and let thine office be, 
Living, to soothe me with thy partial praise, 
As I will live but to be loved of thee. 

Take heed, dear heart, of life and love that give 
To me my sole desire to love and live. 



AD MATREM. 

(London, March 13, 1863. 



Oh what a royalty of song should greet 
The unclouded advent of thy natal day ! 
All things of musical utterance should meet 
In concord of a many-sounding lay ; 



AD MATREM. 127 

Let the proud trumpet tongue thy noble praise, 
The rolling drum reverberate thy fame, 
Let fifes and flutes their fluttering voices raise, 
And the glad cymbals tinkle to thy name ; 
Let the clear horn play tribute to thy truth, 
The deep-based viol tenderly intone 
Thy womanly pity and large heart of ruth ; 
But of my love let my voice sing alone : 

Theme to my jealous lips most dear, most meet, 
If that my voice, to voice it, were more sweet. 



Nay, but thy sweetness shall my song replete 
With sweetness, as the flower to the bee 
That pastures in its petals lends the sweet 
Whereof the honey savours. Not to me 
Belong the praise, if words that do rehearse 
Thy loving kindness loving be, and kind ; 
'Tis but thy nature shining thro' my verse, 
From the love-lighted mirror of my mind. 
Thy beauty beautifies the rhythmic chime, 
Thy grace makes gracious what is sung of thee, 
Thy pureness praised doth purify my rhyme, 
As thy loved nobleness ennobles me : 

Praise thou the virtues that to thee belong 
And then thy praise belongeth to my song. 



in. 

How many a year hath Time, with felon hand, 
Filch' d from the sum of my allotted days 
(Alas ! with no performance that may stand 
In warrant of a well-earn'd meed of praise !) 
Time hath the forehead of my life belined, 
And dipt my youth with his accursed shears, 
Hath made companionable Joy unkind, 
And taught mine eyes the fellowship of tears ; 



128 JULIAN FANE. 

His false hands falsely have my mind assail'd, 
Thence stealing many a secret of sweet pleasure ; 
But his f oil'd fingers nothing have prevail'd, 
Against my heart — the casket of my treasure. 

My love of thee preserved in its fresh prime, 
I, robb'd, left rich ; how poor a thief is Time ! 



IV. 

Oh what to me were glory and renown 

And the world's witness to my famous'd name, 

Match'd with that love which caps me with a crown 

Of honour, far more honouring than fame ! 

Fame sticks a feather in the front of fools, 

And oft contracts the forehead and the eyes 

Of Wisdom, when she flaunts it thro' the schools, 

Flatter'd by Folly and no longer wise. 

But that pure passion which I boast my own 

Leads to true wisdom thro' the love of thee, 

Makes me more proud than monarch on his throne, 

Eicher possest, and more renown'd than he. 

Kings' fame lives often but in fabling story, 
True love in Heaven attains to truest glory. 



Sometimes I think that from the blissful skies, 
Where walk the angels in the land of God, 
The happy spirits regard with rueful eyes 
This sorrowing planet that with us they trod ; 
Yea, and perhaps they hover with their wings 
Over our households, and do gently come 
Taking observance of familiar things, 
Within the precincts of their whilom home : 



AD MATREM. 129 

Tlien do our lost ones, mother, from above 
(Whose memory we keep verdant with our tears) 
Mingle among us, and observe my love 
How it increaseth with increase of years. 

But they must love thee so, that I fear this : 
Lest from my love they take thee to their bliss. 



Oh may they leave me still my happy day 
Which all its light of joy from thee doth borrow, 
And not take all the wealth of stars away 
Wherewith thou brightenest my night of sorrow ! 
Joy were quite joyless, widow'd of thy smile, 
And dear Delight, orphan' d of thee, would grow 
To Sadness, tenfold sadder than erewhile, 
Wanting the salve of tears to soothe his woe. 
O hovering Angels, whom I seem to see, 
Fair faces glad upon this day of mirth, 
To her be gracious, and be kind to me, 
Love her in Heaven, but let her live on earth. 

Draw not, sweet Saints, my Saint unto your light ; 
Whose life to me makes day of this world's night. 



AD MATREM. 

(Vienna, March 13, 1864.) 



How sweet to me comes the recurrent time 
Which, like the dawn unto the bird of day, 
Or night to her that trills love's labour'd chime, 
Or to the Theban statue the sun's ray, 



130 JULIAN FANE. 

Or, showering benedictions sweet as Spring 
That crams the woods with harmonies of joy, 
Doth teach my soul with all her powers to sing 
And in song-service all her skill employ ; 
Dear service dedicate to Song, who loves 
To thee her sacrificial rites to pay, 
The while thy son, her servant, as behoves, 
Doth reverent tendance on thy natal day, 

Which bids him once more greet thee with acclaim, 
And chant anew thy sweet beloved name. 



When I consider how the years are gone 
And see thy fair locks frosted into snow, 
Hath time, I ask, thy younger worth undone, 
Bedimm'd thy soul, or blurr'd thy beauty ? No ! 
Time, that to most is tyrant grim and dread, 
In course of nature unto thee proves kind, 
Who spreads pure silver on thy shining head, 
And bright as gold preserves thy burnisht mind : 
From Time thy mortal wins a mellowing grace, 
And thine immortal learns but to aspire ; 
A milder glory plays about thy face 
Lit by the placid soul's seraphic fire : 

The sweet mind mirror'd in the gentle mien ; 
Thy face so fair, because thy soul's serene. 



" A milder glory plays about thy face," 
As late I saw it on the unhappy night 
Grow fair before me, tender with all grace 
And sweet companion of my woeful plight 
The fire-tongued fever coursed my shuddering veins 
And my diseased thought was full of care, 
And weary seem'd the world and all its pains, 
As very languor bred a dull despair ; 



AD MATEEM. 131 



When suddenly the dark began to grow 
Bright, and a silver-lighted circle spread 
Till thy fair face look'd comfort on my woe 
And round about me healing effluence shed : 

Then hope and health come back to me apace 
Revived by virtue of thy vision'd face. 



O vision'd face unutterably fair, 
How oft when blackness muffled up the night 
And tempest-laden was the surcharged air, 
Nor any hope appeared of starry light, 
How often, lucent as the full-faced moon 
When suddenly she rends the clouded fleece, 
Hath thy sweet influence, like an unhoped boon, 
Turn'd dark to bright, and tempest into peace ! 
Queen of my night of sorrow^ hast thou been, 
Whose countenance of good all evil mars, 
Knowing to crown with hopeful light serene 
Earth's darksome vault when most forlorn of stars, 

And to convert clouds bodeful of despair 
To silver-suited omens good and fair. 



Dost thou remember, sovereign of my heart, 
Dost thou remember when the days were young 
My child-love play'd a parasitic part 
And round thee with a green affection clung ? 
Since when, its annual service to approve 
Upon thy natal day, all days among, 
The clustering growth that clothes thee with its love 
Puts forth some blossom of perennial song : 
So, like a stately tree whose bole is gay 
With crowded blooms, whose top to heaven towers, 

k 2 



132 JULIAN FANE. 

Thou to the skies pursuest thy quiet way 
By filial fancy garlanded with flowers. 

The flowers are nought in odour or in hue 
Save that loye bred them, and that love is true. 



Music, and frankincense of flowers, belong 

To this sweet festival of all the year. 

Take, then, the latest blossom of my song, 

And to Love's canticle incline thine ear. 

What is it that Love chaunts ? thy perfect praise. 

What is it that Love prays ? worthy to prove. 

What is it Love desires ? thy length of days. 

What is it that Love asks ? return of love. 

Ah, what requital can Love ask more dear 

Than by Love's priceless self to be repaid ? 

Thy liberal love, increasing year by year, 

Hath granted more th&n all my heart hath pray'd, 

And, prodigal as Nature, makes me pine 

To think how poor my love compared with thine ! 



It would be impossible to illustrate adequately the 
versatility of Julian Fane's intelligence without adding 
to the foregoing specimens of his verse at least an equal 
number of selections from the mass of official corre- 
spondence in which he was simultaneously engaged. 
Unfortunately, however, his despatches and reports are 
either too confidential, or too statistical, for insertion in 
such a memoir as the present. 



CHAPTER VIII. . 

Visit to Venice. Taste for old Pictures. Opinions about Modern Poets. 
Impressions of Wagner. Change of House. Serious illness in 
consequence of it. Return to England. Appointment to Paris. 
Marriage. Paternity. Retirement from bis Profession. Plans 
for Life in England. Widowhood. 

Shortly before I parted from him at Vienna, I was 
so fortunate as to succeed in persuading Julian Fane 
to accompany me for a few weeks to Venice ; a city 
which I was anxious to revisit, for the sake of bearing 
with me to the bitter shores of the Baltic a refreshened 
recollection of its manifold beauties. He was not at 
first greatly tempted by my proposal ; and I think that 
what finally secured his acquiescence in it, was the 
vehemence of my appeal to the occasion this visit would 
afford him of comparing the impressions made upon him 
by the sight of St. Mark's itself, with those which were 
already so strongly stamped upon his imagination by 
Mr. Ruskin's gorgeous description of it. 

Of Mr. Ruskin's writings he was a great admirer; 
and about the " Stones of Venice " he had, I think, 
" a vision of his own," which he cared not "to undo." 

However, friendship, if not curiosity, prevailed over 
this disinclination to disturb an ideal ; and of the many 
pleasant days we passed together, none were pleasanter 



134 JULIAN FANE. 

to me than those which I passed with Julian Fane at 
Venice. This was the first time he revisited Italy, the 
country of his birth ; which he had quitted at an age 
too early for remembrance. His tastes, tendencies, and 
sympathies, as regards climate, scenery, and ways of 
life, were so thoroughly English, that I doubt if he 
would ever have felt that vehement love of life in Italy 
which is rarely escaped by those who have lived there 
for any length of time. But the pictures at Venice 
made a profound impression on him ; and developed in 
him a taste w T hich he had never before evinced, but 
which he never afterwards ceased to cultivate, for the 
works of the old masters, both German as well as 
Italian. At the time of this visit to Venice, he did 
not possess a single picture by any old master ; yet he 
died (alas ! not many years afterwards) in possession 
of a small but well-selected number of good pictures ; 
amongst which I remember a Gian Bellini and a Lucas 
Chranach of unmistakable authenticity and in admirable 
condition. 

The intercourse between myself and Julian Fane was 
terminated by my promotion to a distant post ; and our 
subsequent meetings were few and far between. We 
were both of us too busily employed for frequent cor- 
respondence ; and most of the letters which I received 
from Julian Fane subsequent to our separation in the 
year 1863, refer exclusively to matters of no general 
interest. Amongst them, however, is one from which 
I shall here extract a few passages ; both because it 
contains a description of his life at Vienna in the 
summer of that year, and also because it indicates the 



LETTER TO THE AUTHOR. 135 

interest inspired in him by the writings of a young poet 
whose star was at that time newly risen upon the 
horizon, and who is now the acknowledged head of a 
new school of English verse. Referring in this letter 
to some of our minor contemporary poets, he says: 
"True, what prodigality of fancy, what dearth of creative 
imagination ! We have already filigree work of the most 
exquisite design, and 'tis of no use multiplying that 
kind of handicraft in a world which is full of it. What 
we want is massive work. But that implies much of 
the precious raw material. We have excellent artificers 
of poetry ; but each artificer has only a very little gold 
to work with, and is therefore forced to do minute 
work. The desideratum is (to follow out the metaphor) 
a mine-mind whose owner can dig out of it great blocks 
of the true metal. Then, if he be a good artificer to 
boot, we shall have elaborateness as well as solidity in 
his work. If not, we shall have rough-hewn things of 
^reat price. ... By the way, I send you herewith a 
lyric written by Swinburne, the author of two plays, 
• The Queen Mother ' and ' Rosamond,' which you pro- 
bably know. Read it carefully (at least three times), 
and let me know what you think of it. I copied it from 
a manuscript, and beg you to return the copy I send, 
as I have no other. Now I come to my unworthy self. 
I have really been seedy, but the case is not so bad as 
you seem to have feared. I caught a cold, and neglected 
it. The cold, therefore, went in, instead of coming out 
When I did take it in hand by unleashing drugs upon 
it, they hunted it from one internal part to another. 
The process of digging it out when it ran to ground at 



136 JULIAN FANE. 

last, was tedious ; and I growled horribly, not being 
used to much physical suffering, thanks to my good 
stars. I looked deplorably from sheer sulks ; and 
hence the consternation of my friends. I am now out 
of the wood, however, and myself again for all purposes 
of amusement, as dictated by Polonius, i such as dicing, 
gaming, drinking, fencing, swearing, quarrelling, &c. 5 
I am changing my lodgings ; with no regret, as I find 
my present wigwam intolerably hot in summer. I have 
taken the second story of the new house, outside the 
Schotten Thor. We often looked at it together when it 
was a-building. Do you remember ? "lis an enormous 
apartment with eight rooms, two kitchens, and, alas ! a 
ruinous rent to pay. But the charm of it is, that half 
the rooms look south-west on the parade ground, and 
will be sunny in winter ; the other half, north-west on 
the glacis, and will be cool in summer. 

" I had lately a delightful evening at Lady B's with 
Wagner. He read us the libretto of his new (serio-comic) 
opera, ' The Singers of Nuremberg.' The work may 
almost be called a satire on the art-critics of the day. 
It is full of humour and wit ; sparkles with lively versi- 
fication ; and is really rich in thought. He declaimed it 
admirably, with much histrionic power. I was greatly 
struck with the man as well as his work." 

The taking of the apartment described in this letter 
was most unfortunate in its results. The house was a 
new one, never before occupied. The walls of it were 
probably still damp. He caught cold in it ; and the 
cold thus caught terminated in a severe attack of pleurisy, 
from which his health never permanently rallied. He 



ILLNESS IN VIENNA. 137 

was about to revisit England when prostrated by this 
attack, the gravity of which he concealed from his 
mother as long as he was able to write. His recovery 
from it was greatly due to the affectionate solicitude and 
hospitality of Lord and Lady Bloonifield, by whom he 
was regarded and cared for with all the tenderness which 
friendship derives from inborn kindliness of heart, and a 
sincere admiration and esteem for the object of it. In 
the spring of 1864 his health was sufficiently revived to 
enable him to undertake the journey to England. He 
remained with his mother at Wimbledon during the 
summer of that year, and was able, in the autumn, 
to accompany Lady Westmorland and his sister, 
Lady Bose, on a round of visits in the north of 
England. 

He continued to be, however, painfully susceptible to 
cold, and subject to a constant tendency to cough. 
Notwithstanding the delicate appearance of him, his rich 
fund of physical strength and spirits, his overflowing and 
restless vitality, and the apparent perfection of impunity 
with which, in the indulgence of his versatile activity of 
temperament, he then underwent every physical and 
intellectual excitement, had formerly been so re- 
markable that I used jokingly to nickname him Boling- 
broke. 

Alas ! those days of impunity were over for ever. 
His health was now at the mercy of the slightest draught 
of air : and in the last series of sonnets to his mother, 
which are printed in the preceding chapter, there is sad 
record of his physical sufferings. 

In the year 1865 he was appointed Secretary of 



138 JULIAN FANE. 

Embassy at Paris. During the previous year a great 
and very pleasing impression had been made upon Lady 
Westmorland by the attractive qualities and amiable 
disposition of Lady Adine Cowper, during their inter- 
course at a country house, where the two ladies happened 
to be fellow guests. Julian Fane's protracted bachelor- 
hood had long been a subject of regret to his 
family; his mother was fully cognizant of the many 
latent qualities in his character which peculiarly fitted 
him for the enjoyment of that domestic life to which he 
seemed averse ; and her solicitous maternal instinct, 
aided by a thorough knowledge of his tastes and disposi- 
tion, immediately recognised in her young and charming 
fellow-guest the woman whom of all others she could 
most cordially welcome as the wife of the son to whom 
she was so tenderly and proudly devoted. This senti- 
ment appears to have been mutual, for the young lady 
subsequently wrote to one of her sisters : " If ever I 
marry, Lady Westmorland is the sort of person I should 
wish my mother-in-law to be." It was not however till 
the year 1866 that Julian Fane and Lady Adine Cowper 
became acquainted with each other. They first met 
whilst he was on a visit to Lord and Lady Wensieydale 
at Ampthill. Whilst there he accepted an invitation 
from Lady Cowper to Wrest ; and a few days after his 
arrival at Wrest Park, he was engaged to Lady 
Adine. The announcement of this betrothal occasioned 
much surprise to the friends of the two betrothed. But 
never was a marriage more harmoniously assorted, or 
more felicitously complete in the union of two appro- 
priately associated natures, than that which on the 29th 



LADY ADINE. 139 

September, 1866, united in the flower of their young and 
beautiful lives these two lovers, destined alas to be so 
soon parted by death ! 

Within the first month after his marriage, Julian Fane 
was again attacked by a return of his old symptoms. But 
the attack was short and apparently slight. It did not 
prevent him from resuming his official duties at Paris. 
It occasioned no serious alarm either to himself or 
his friends, and, in the rapidity of his recovery from it, 
his doctors appeared to recognize the proof of a singu- 
larly vigorous constitution. When shortly afterwards 
his new home was blessed by the birth of a daughter, the 
felicity of it was such as any Greek philosopher might 
have well deemed dangerously great. Lady Adine Fane 
not only shared, in all its enthusiasm, her husband's 
devotional affection for the mother by whom they were 
both cherished with more than parental tenderness, but 
her tastes and dispositions were also in all things the 
same as his ; her sympathy and intelligence made her 
one with him, in all the interests and objects, the pur- 
suits as well as the pastimes, of his life ; and she so 
completely merged her sweet and gentle spirit in his 
own, that 

" always, thought in thought, 
Purpose in purpose, will in will, they grew." 

Their conjugal felicity was faultless : and for the joys of 
paternity no man was ever more fitted by temperament 
than this graceful, brilliant man of the world, who 
seemed so little adapted to the homely character of a 
paterfamilias. His delight in children had always been 



140 JULIAN FANE. 

excessive, nor was it greater than their delight in him. 
He had ever been as much, a favourite in the nursery as 
in the salon. He thoroughly understood the feelings and 
characters of those u good little men and women ; " nor 
was he ever more charming than when trying to please 
them. Meanwhile the prospects of his domestic felicity 
were not brighter than those of his public career. He 
had attained to a position in his profession very much. 
higher than the rank he held in it : and, even under the 
sterile routine of an undiscriminating seniority-system of 
promotion, lie was conspicuously marked out by his 
professional reputation for appointment to the next 
vacant mission in Europe. A long life of public useful- 
ness and private happiness seemed to be before him. 
Suddenly, to the surprise of all his Mends, he resigned 
the Secretaryship of Embassy at Paris, and retired from 
a profession of which he was one of the most brilliant 
ornaments, and of which the highest prizes lay so nearly 
in his grasp. 

Julian Fane was doubtless conscious that his health 
had seriously suffered from the uncongenial climates and 
labours in which so many years of his professional life 
had been passed. His recent experience of the charm of 
domestic life made him more than ever indifferent to the 
sterile business and long-deferred rewards of such a 
profession. 

No man's manhood is thoroughly completed until he 
becomes chef de tribu, the head of a home ; and perma- 
nently bound to a special responsibility for the happiness 
and welfare of those whose destiny he has deliberately 
attached to his own, by the ties of matrimony and 



INFLUENCE OF MARRIAGE. 141 

paternity. When this responsibility has been seriously 
and reverentially assumed, it generally brings about one 
of those retours sur soi-meme, in which a man takes 
stock of all his past experiences, and makes a careful 
selection of investment in the future. It would seem 
that at this period of his life Julian Fane was impressed 
by a just conviction that the continued prosecution of a 
profession which was incapable of satisfying his strongest 
moral and intellectual requirements, would prove fatal to 
the redemption and development of powers which he 
recognized in himself. A really large and independent 
character cannot but be more or less narrowed and 
suppressed by daily exercise in those subservient inge- 
nuities whereby a diplomatist must endeavour to give 
practical effect to instructions, which, at the best, rarely 
inspire him with any moral or intellectual enthusiasm. 
I doubt not that Julian Fane now felt his hold upon 
life to be somewhat precarious ; and that he seriously 
purposed to employ the remaining years of his existence 
in some work which should worthily exercise, and 
worthily represent, all that was best and highest in his 
nature. This resolution was certainly also encouraged 
and confirmed by his wife's enthusiastic participation in 
his own preference of a studious and contemplative 
life. Moreover the prospect of habitual separation from 
his mother and all who were dear to him in England 
(the country of his predilection), became more and more 
intolerable to him in proportion as he realized from his 
own sensations the uncertainty of human life. He had 
just received from the Government (which pressed him 
to remain in his profession) the warmest approval of the 



142 JULIAN FANE. 

ability with which he had conducted the affairs of the 
Embassy at Paris during the period between the de- 
parture of Lord Cowley and the arrival of Lord Lyons. 
But he was already sighing for the repose he needed to 
preserve his health, and leisure to cultivate his literary 
tastes. 

"Without awaiting the speedy promotion of which he 
was then certain, he quitted Paris ; and, with his wife and 
child, returned to his mother's house in England. There, 
in the course of a few months, he appeared to have 
entirely rallied from the fatiguing effects of the sharp 
physical pain with which he had been continually afflicted 
during the year 1867. The summer of the year 1868 
was passed by himself and his wife at Apethorpe, the old 
house he loved so well, which had been placed at their 
disposal by his brother, the present Earl of Westmorland, 
for the confinement of Lady Adine. There his second 
child, a son, was born. In the meanwhile, he had 
engaged on a long lease a small house at Fotheringhay, 
about three miles from Apethorpe, and had begun to 
furnish and prepare it for his future home. 

The house thus ordered (with scrupulous regard to her 
approval whose tastes and wishes were so congenial to 
his own) for the reception of the wife he so dearly loved, 
and who was looking forward with him to the early 
enjoyment of its rural retirement, they were not destined 
to enter together. Six weeks subsequent to her confine- 
ment, Lady Adine continued to be so weak and suffering, 
that her husband accompanied her to Wrest for change of 
air. There however she became worse. They sought in 
London the best medical advice ; and sea-air having 



DEATH OF LADY ADINE. 143 

been recommended, proceeded with their two children to 
Brighton. The experiment was not successful. In 
compliance with her urgent wishes, Lady Adine was 
removed by her husband to the house of his mother, at 
Wimbledon ; and there, a fortnight afterwards, she 
died. 



CHAPTER IX. 

Mr. Tern on Harcourt's Recollections of Julian Fane. 

My Dear L. 

You have asked me to give you my impressions 
of Julian Fane. In doing so you. have imposed upon 
me a task, which is to me at least, the most difficult — I 
had almost said the most impossible— of performance. 
Writing to you who knew him later, but not less well, 
than I did, description is needless ; but how to convey 
to others that unspeakable charm, that tender grace 
which endeared his life and still consecrates nis memory 
to his friends — that I feel belongs to an art of which I 
am not a master. 

How am I to tell to those who do not know it already, 
what Julian Fane was ? I can do it as little as I could 
pourtray to you the exquisite lineaments of some land- 
scape which has struck the imagination, and which 
dwells in the memory for ever. I should succeed no 
better than if I tried to convey to you the attractions of 
a woman I have loved. No human being that I ever 
knew combined in an equal degree the qualities which 
attract in a man, and the charms which fascinate in a 
woman. It would require the touch of the author of 
" In Memoriam " to trace the delicate features of such 



MR. VERXON HARCOURT'S RECOLLECTIONS. 145 

character, and to do justice to the depths of love which 
he inspired. The hard bold outlines of an active and 
eventful career are easily recorded, and such a biography 
is not difficult to compose. But this is only the dead 
skeleton of existence — the tender tints, the graceful 
movement, the living light which form the realities of 
friendship and of love, belong to those mysteries of life 
which defy analysis and are beyond the reach of imita- 
tion. What I feel about Julian I think you know ; what 
I can tell you is very little ; and must be most inade- 
quate to satisfy your wishes or mine. 

Our acquaintance, which soon ripened into a friend- 
ship, as close I think, as two men ever enjoyed, began at 
Cambridge in 1848. I had been absent abroad for a 
year, and found that he had entered at Trinity whilst I 
was away. I remember as it were to-day the wine-party 
when I first saw him. His was not a form easily 
forgotten. We fell, I know not how, on the discussion 
of Shelley's poetry. I know that we took opposite sides, 
and that (as was likely to be the case) he was right and 
I was wrong, and I learnt from him afterwards to 
appreciate his favourite poet. Julian seemed in himself 
the true presentment of the " pard-like spirit beautiful 
and swift." From that time we gravitated towards 
each other by that sort of instinctive and indescribable 
attraction which governs the attachments of youth. 
Perhaps the very variety of our temperaments and the 
difference of our dispositions bore no small share in the 
bond that united us. The moment at which our 
acquaintance began, was one of singular interest in the 
history of the world. It was the very crisis of the 

L 



146 JULIAN FANE. 

European Bevolution of 1848. Julian Fane came to 
Cambridge under very peculiar circumstances. Though 
already attached to his father's Mission at Berlin, and 
gifted as you know with all the graces of mind and 
person which enable a man to shine in such a career, and 
to enjoy to the Ml the pleasures which society and 
Courts afford, he determined of his own will to go to 
College, and to prepare himself for it. He buried him- 
self for some time before he came to Cambridge with a 
tutor in a country village at nineteen years of age, when 
most men in his position are content to consider their 
education completed, and to assume that the time for 
action and enjoyment has arrived. I doubt if your 
profession and his offer many examples of such a 
retraite. It seems to me, remembering what he was, an 
act of self-control still more extraordinary now, than it 
did then, and was a proof of that powerful determination 
to excel in the best way, in the best things, which those 
who only knew him superficially might never have 
suspected to underlie his gentle and tender character. 

Julian had lived too much in the world to be shy, and 
he was of a disposition too open to be reserved. When 
he was in the society of men, he gave them of his best, 
and no one could, or did, make himself more liked by 
those with whom he lived. Most men affect that in 
which they are conscious of excelling, and certainly no 
one was more capable of adorning the most brilliant 
society, whether by the graces of his manner, or the gifts 
of his mind, than Julian Fane. Yet, what was remark- 
able in his case, he was very little solicitous to seek 
opportunities of shining. This was so at Cambridge, 



MR. VERNON HARCOURT'S RECOLLECTIOXS. 147 

and remained so, even to the end, when he necessarily 
mixed more in the great world. As a fellow commoner 
at Trinity, he enjoyed the advantage of associating on 
intimate terms at the high table, with many distin- 
guished men of older standing than himself, and there 
are many amongst the College authorities of his time 
who retain, as I well know, a vivid recollection of his 
delightful qualities. But his intimate friends were few. 
He had a sort of sensitiveness and fastidiousness all his 
life, which seemed to shrink from the effort of making 
new acquaintances, but which endeared him all the more 
to those who enjoyed the happiness of his friendship. I 
had the good fortune to be the means of introducing him 
to a society at Cambridge, to which many generations 
of men (generations are short at College) look back with 
grateful recollections of instructive hours, and of pleasant 
life-long friendship. I venture to say that amongst the 
generation to which we belonged no figure remains more 
yividly imprinted on the memory of all, than that of Julian 
Fane. And " the Society," as its disciples loved to call 
it, counted amongst its members no worthier associate, 
no more loyal or devoted adherent. To the last day of 
his life its membership constituted that freemasonry of 
friendship which still preserves that cherished institution 
in the freshness of perpetual youth and of immortal age. 
He was the salt and the life of those well remembered 
evenings. He was not fond of argument himself, but 
tolerant of the disputation of others. He had interest in 
every topic and sympathy with every mind ; and when 
graver discussions were exhausted would delight us 
inexperienced schoolboys with the tales of the great 

l 2 



148 JULIAN FANE. 

world outside, of which we had seen nothing, and of 
which he knew as much as any man of fifty. His early 
experience of life, without haying hardened his heart, or 
damped his enthusiasm, had sobered his judgment, and 
gave him a prudence and discretion beyond his years and 
ours, which by its strangeness astonished and charmed 
us. He was as fit to conduct a delicate negotiation at 
twenty as the oldest diplomate in the service. Brought 
up in the atmosphere of foreign Courts, he had a 
thoroughly popular and English fibre in his nature. 
Though it was his fate and our misfortune that he was 
called upon to live so much in foreign countries, I believe 
he was never really happy out of England. Yet so 
delicate and considerate was he of the feelings of others, 
that I doubt whether those with whom he was called 
upon to associate, ever suspected how his heart always 
" to his country turned with ceaseless pain, and dragged 
at each remove a lengthening chain." It was only when 
sitting over the fire smoking his cigarette with an old 
friend that he would confess with a groan how he longed 
to exchange all the splendour of the capitals of Europe 
for the society, the associations, the topics of old 
Cambridge times and Cambridge men. M. de Mont- 
alembert wrote once that he came to take " an air-bath 
of liberty" in England. A return to London seemed 
to produce much the same effect on Julian Fane. Often 
he has said to me, " This is the only place where one can 
talk about anything worth talking about." Excuse the 
extreme chauvinisme of the remark, but it was charac- 
teristic of one of those unsuspected corners of his mind 
known only to those who knew him well. With all that 



MR. VERNON HARCOURT'S RECOLLECTIONS. 149 

remarkable adaptiveness and plasticity which enabled 
him in a singular degree to mould himself to persons and 
circumstances when occasion required, he was still in his 
character, in his intellect, and in his sympathy, English 
of the English. 

Julian's health, always delicate — indeed so delicate 
that his prolonged life was more surprising than his 
early death — prevented his taking any part in the active 
physical exercises of College life. Like many men in 
feeble health, he turned day into night, and night into 
day. To awake him past midday in his lodgings, was 
the daily and not always easy office of his intimates. He 
was passionately fond of music, a taste to which he had 
an hereditary right ; and had only banished his piano 
because he thought it wasted his time too much. He 
was studious of general literature, and only followed the 
regular course of the University sufficiently to take his 
degree with credit. He set his heart however on the 
University Prize for English Verse, and Julian seldom 
failed in that which he wished to accomplish. The 
subject was not an easy one to treat — the death of 
Adelaide the Queen Dowager. But the choice and 
graceful verses, which showed how deeply his mind was 
steeped in the Muse of Milton, well deserved the preemi- 
nence they won. The idea was original, even its imita- 
tion, and was worked out with the finish and taste which 
belonged to all his compositions. 

When he left Cambridge, his path and mine diverged 
— he to diplomacy, I to law. We were necessarily much 
divided, but our hearts, as you know, were always one. 
You ask me for letters, I have some of course, but not a 



150 JULIAN FANE. 

great many. We were both bad correspondents. Only 
to his mother who was the central idol of his heart, did 
he constantly write. But when he was in England we 
were much together. His was a heart to which absence 
brought no chill and length of time no change. Of his 
diplomatic career I need say nothing to you. You know 
it better and can describe it more truly than any one. 
I think you can bear testimony that no man was ever 
better fitted for a post where temper and prudence, 
commended by winning manners and graceful courtesy, 
are needed to deal with difficult negociations and men of 
various minds. He had just reached the first position 
in the second grade of his profession and was ripe for 
the highest post, when his health and strength gave way, 
and the world which is " cold to all that might have 
been," never learnt that future which his friends were 
well able to foresee. 

Though deeply interested in politics, Julian was not 
by disposition a party politician. His opinions were of 
a liberal complexion, but moderate in tone. His early 
experience of the European Eevolution in 1848 had, 
perhaps, somewhat chilled his faith in democratic pro- 
gress. But on the American Civil "War, which I have 
always regarded as the true touchstone in our times of 
real liberal belief, his sympathies were wholly on the 
side of constitutional freedom, and against the "chivalry'' 
of rebellion and slavery. The strong English instincts, 
to which I have already referred, always preserved him 
from the dangers to which his profession has been sup- 
posed to be obnoxious — I mean that of losing sympathy 
with the habits and minds of his own country through 



MR. VERNON HARCOURT'S RECOLLECTIONS. 151 

the influence of a foreign atmosphere, and association 
with foreign manners of thought and of action. He had 
a truly British love of political compromise, which was, 
perhaps, all the stronger from his experience of the evils 
consequent on the incapacity of foreign politicians to 
accept such a basis of action. I remember well how in 
the vehement contest on the subject of the Reform Bills 
of 1866 and 1867, whilst admitting the inconsistency 
(not to use a stronger phrase) of the Conservative 
Government in proposing a measure of household suf- 
frage, he insisted on the enormous political advantage of 
effecting so great a revolution in the balance of political 
power without any social disruption, and binding both 
parties in the State to the policy of enfranchisement 
without achieving a dangerous and mortifying triumph 
of one section of people over another. He used to say, 
" Depend upon it, such a thing as this could not be done 
anywhere but in England without fighting in the streets." 
I can only record the immense advantage I derived (I 
am sure you have felt it too) of being able to look at 
English questions through the medium of a mind emi- 
nently fair and impartial, and which had drawn its ex- 
perience from the knowledge of " many cities and 
manners of men." 

Of his domestic life what can I, what need I, say ? 
Our fortunes and misfortunes have been too parallel to 
permit me to speak of them. There are memories of joy 
and of sorrow which are not to be forgotten, but which 
it is in vain to describe. His life and his death alike 
dwell in my heart like the strain of some beautiful poem, 
in which the alternations of delight, and of pain, pursue 



152 JULIAN FANE. 

each other with a cadence of the deepest pathos and 
seem to blend in one harmonious whole. It is not given, 
I suppose, to the highest natures to be very happy ; what 
the world calls happiness should be made of coarser fibre 
and of " sterner stuff than this." 

The last time I saw much of Julian was at Fothering- 
hay (a name consecrated to misfortune), where he had. 
prepared a home for Adine and his children. He went 
there only to lay her in the grave: I joined him a short 
time after her death ; when he was (I think he knew this 
himself) stricken with a mortal disease. He was very 
calm and almost happy, in a solitude which was only 
broken by the prattle of his little children. You know 
all his life what a passion he had for being alone. It 
seemed to grow upon him in his sorrows. Yet as 
ever his heart reverted to his early days, his early life, 
and his early friends. We talked of old things and of 
old times as we did at Cambridge, but I felt that we 
should not do so much longer. Next to his mother and 
his home, I think Cambridge had the first place in his 
affections. He could not rest till he had taken Adine 
there, to introduce her to the old haunts that he loved 
so well. 

That so finished and complete a man should have 
perished so untimely — that the world should know so 
little of that which is best and highest and most lovely 
in the midst of it, is not the less sad, because it was so 
common. You and I, my dear L., were amongst the 
few, the very few, to whom it was permitted, to know all 
that Julian was ; and whatever else may come to us, it 
is a gift for which we shall always feel supremely grate- 



MR. VERNON HARCOURT'S RECOLLECTIONS. 153 

ful. If you are able in any degree to convey to others 
less fortunate, a sense of that delight which we have so 
often drunk in his companionship, you will have achieved 
a work well worthy of achievement ; and I cordially bid 
you God speed, wishing that I had the power, as I have 
the will, to assist you in it. 

Yours ever, 

W. V. H. 
April, 1871. 



CHAPTER X. 

Pailing Health. Continued Interest in Literature and Public Affairs. 
Latest Employments. Poems ad Matrem. Increasing Sufferings 
and Isolation. Sympathy of Friends. Religious Belief. Designs 
for the Future. Sonnets to his Mother. His Sister's Recollec- 
tions. Last Hours. Latest "Written Words. The End. Tributes 
to his Memory. 

From the shock of Lady Adine's death, Julian Fane 
never recovered. The remaining days of life were to 
him few and sad. "I thank G-od," says his mother, 
"that I was with him through that dreadful time, and 
that we were never afterwards separated, except now and 
then for a few days. He was, in his deep grief, perfect, 
— as indeed in all the relations and circumstances of life. 
Doing all that was right ; and submitting with patience 
and calmness (after the first sharp paroxysm of his great 
anguish) to the will of God. He did not see anyone .but 
me during the week we remained at Wimbledon." He 
then went to Apethorpe to attend the funeral ; and 
thence took possession of his melancholy home at Fother- 
inghay; where his children joined him from Wrest, 
whither they had returned from Brighton during Lady 
Adine's illness. He was also joined there by his mother, 
who found him sadly broken by grief, as well as physical 
pain, and afflicted by a continuous cough. On the 
advice of his physicians he sought change of air in the 



LATEST EMPLOYMENTS. 155 

Isle of Wight, but there his cough grew worse. In the 
summer, still suffering, he returned to Wimbledon. 
Thence he visited his wife's family at "Wrest and 
Panshanger; but with no relief from the bodily dis- 
comfort, which was doubtless aggravated by all that he 
was still morally suffering under the sense of his recent 
bereavement. He returned for the winter to his mother's 
house in London. There, his health rapidly declined, 
till in the month of January, 1870, his sufferings 
assumed the form of an affection in the throat which 
deprived him of the power of swallowing any liquid. 

Yet, to the latest hour of his life, he retained the 
liveliest interest in every great political and social 
question which affected the moral and intellectual welfare 
of his fellow creatures. This was an interest purely 
unselfish, and which had survived all possibility of 
personal participation in the triumph of any cause by 
which it was inspired. His passion for literature 
continued also to the last. It was with fast-failing health, 
and spirits cruelly shattered by his recent loss, that he 
wrote for the Edinburgh Review a long and careful 
criticism (much altered by the Editor) of Mr. Browning's 
•poem of "The Ring and the Book." That exquisite 
consideration for the feelings of all around him which so 
largely contributed to the peculiar charm of his character, 
was increased instead of being impaired by the intensity 
of his own sufferings. Nor did the extremest physical 
pain and weakness prevent him, even in the last struggle 
of his prolonged death-agony, from greeting with its 
accustomed tribute of grateful song the return of that 
day which was so dear to him as the birthday of his 



156 JULIAN FANE. 

mother. The following sonnet, addressed to her some 
months after the birth of his first child, a daughter, is in 
sad contrast with the two others here printed below it ; 
which were written after the death of his wife. 

AD MATREM. 

(London, March 13, 1868.) 

Thou tiny blossom hanging on the bough 
Of life ; my baby, lapt in gentle rest, 
Time was when softly on a mother's breast 
I slept in peace, as thou art sleeping now. 
And eyes as full of love's ineffable right 
As those that o'er thy slumbers vigil keep, 
Kept patient watch above my infant sleep, 
And hands as true and tender clasp'd me light. 
Ah, happy mother, may thy child prove true ! 
Ah, happy child, deserve thy mother's love ! 
My Saint, I crave thy blessing on these two, 
Crave thou for them a blessing from above. 

Then take me to thy heart, and we will seek 
No words to say what words can never speak:. 



AD MATREM. 

(FOTHEKIXGHAY, MARCH 13, 1869.) 



" Could I outpour all treasures of all art, 
" And beggar language to enrich my verse, 
" I could not paint thee perfect as thou art, 
" Nor half thy praise, nor half my love rehearse." 
— So did I sing while yet the woods were green, 
And all life's landscape blithe and debonair, 
But now that birds are mute and boughs are bare, 
"Will not song mock the solitary scene ? 



SONNETS TO HIS MOTHER. 157 

The solitary scene ! for now no more 

The sweet mate sits beside me on the tree ; 

Fled to the peaceful Paradisal shore, 

The sweet mate who was glad I sang* for thee. 

Ah, can she yet be touch'd by mortal thing ? 

Almost niethinks from Heaven she bids me sing. 

ii. 

Sometimes there comes in drear December's dark 

An earth- awakening joy-compelling day ; 

And for a moment the long silent lark 

Mistakes the month, and almost finds his lay. 

So must this day, thou most beloved soul, 

Which sacred is, and dedicate to thee, 

Tho' earth were wrapp'd in snow from pole to pole, 

Draw from my lips one snatch of melody 

To call thee perfect in thy peerless grace ; 

How good, how true, how tender, who shall tell ? 

Thou ministering angel in the place 

Where sorrow comes, she only knows thee well. 
And I, whose heart with Sorrow hath been one, 
Bless beyond words who so hath blest her son. 

The peculiar and painful affection of the throat, from 
which, ever since the beginning of the year in which 
these two last sonnets are dated, Julian Fane had been a 
constant sufferer, was accompanied by a gradual extinc- 
tion of voice. This loss of voice was almost complete 
for nearly a year before the end of his great sufferings. 
The impossibility of swallowing liquids added to his 
other torments the agony of constant thirst, which could 
only be alleviated by sucking small pieces of fruit. His 
own intense sensitiveness to the sight of physical pain 
made him shrink from seeing any of the old and 
attached friends, who, during his long mortal combat 
with the malady to which he finally succumbed, were 
constant in their visits and hopeful to the last. He 



158 JULIAN FANE. 

could not bear to witness the pain with which he knew 
they would contemplate his own. And, with the 
exception of his mother and sister, who were in constant 
attendance upon him, no one but his brother (and he 
only for a few moments) was ever admitted into the 
profound seclusion of his sick room. Lord Clarendon 
(whose own valuable life was shortened by his con- 
scientious and unremitting attendance to the minutest 
business of the laborious office he then held) never failed 
during the whole of this time, to call every Sunday in 
the hope of seeing and cheering, by his kindly sympathy, 
the young friend whose bright intelligence and many 
endearing qualities were appreciated by no one more 
warmly than the statesman under whom he had served 
during the greater part of his brilliant but prematurely 
broken career. 

The poor sufferer would not allow himself the luxury 
of even once again beholding the chief and friend to 
whom he was cordially and gratefully attached. But, 
knowing the interest still retained by Julian Fane in all 
public affairs, Lord Clarendon continued to pass many 
an hour out of the afternoon of the only day in the week 
which found him comparatively free from official business, 
in affectionate endeavours to alleviate the solitude of 
that sick chamber which he never entered, by imparting 
to Lady Westmorland (and with all the charm of his own 
rare conversational powers), in order that she might 
communicate it to her son, whatever he thought .likely 
to interest Julian in the political gossip of the week* 
Mr. Vernon Harcourt also, Julian's most intimate friend, 
came daily, hoping against hope, to that sad house, for 



RELIGIOUS BELIEF. 159 

news of the sick man who had not the courage to receive 
him. It was only by putting her ear close to his lips, 
and supporting his powerless and wasted arm upon her 
shoulder, that his mother was able to hear and under- 
stand the faint utterances which even thus were not 
articulated without an effort. For a long while he 
shrunk from seeing his children, who, since the com- 
mencement of his mortal suffering, had remained with 
their maternal grandmother, Lady Cowper, at Wrest. 
He dreaded the possibility of their being frightened by 
the sight of him. But six weeks before his 'death he 
sent for them, and saw them daily. His mind dwelt 
constantly, and with the most solicitous forethought, upon 
the subject of their education and future lives. On this 
subject he spoke much with his sister, whom he 
appointed guardian to his two little orphans, in the 
event of his death ; for which (though never despondent) 
he was fully and calmly prepared. Two months before 
it happened he executed his will, and made every 
arrangement for the fulfilment of his last wishes. 

u We had," says Lady Westmorland, in a letter to my- 
self, " several conversations, during his last illness, upon 
religious subjects, about which he had his own peculiar 
views. The disputes and animosities between High and 
Low Church, and all the feuds of religious sectarianism, 
caused him the deepest disgust. I think, indeed, that he 
carried this feeling too far. He had a horror of cant; 
which I also think was exaggerated ; for it gave him a 
repulsion for all outward show of religious observances. 
He often told me that he never missed the practice of 
prayer, at morning and evening, and at other times. 



160 JULIAN FANE. 

But his prayers were his own : his own thoughts in his 
own words. He said that he could not pray in the set 
words of another ; nor unless he was alone. As to join- 
ing in Family Prayers, or praying at Church, he found 
it impossible. He constantly read the New Testament. 
He deprecated the indiscriminate reading of the Bible. 
He firmly believed in the efficacy of sincere prayer ; and 
was always pleased, when I told him I had prayed for 
him. "When I perceived that the end of his sufferings 
could not be long delayed, I felt certain it would be 
useless to propose to him to see a clergyman. But I did 
write to Mr. Maurice (who was at Cambridge), a kind 
friend of mine, and one whom Julian much admired and 
liked, — to come to town ; thinking that perhaps at last 
he might see him, and that he would be a comfort to us 
all. By some accident, my letter did not reach him as 
soon as it ought ; and though he immediately hurried 
to town, he arrived a few hours after life had departed. 
The day before, I had read the prayers for the sick at 
his bedside ; and he said he liked to hear them from my 
voice. He knew they came from my heart" 

Here, I cannot forbear to add, that having had many 
opportunities, in the course of my own intimacy with 
him, of knowing what were the religious opinions and 
feelings of Julian Fane, at the time when he was in the 
fall vigour of his intellectual faculties, and the maturity 
of his self-knowledge, I am persuaded that (except in so 
far as they doubtless grew more intense as his mind grew 
more and more spiritualised by suffering and the contem- 
plation of approaching death) those opinions and feelings 
underwent no change, but supported him to the last 



DESIGNS FOR THE FUTURE. 161 

under great sorrow of heart and grievous bodily affliction. 
His mind, spontaneously attracted by the spiritual 
beauty which it recognized as the pervading atmosphere 
of an indefinite and boundless tract of Christian senti- 
ment, flowed easily round and over all incidental dog- 
matic obstructions ; fully satisfied with possessing the 
simplest and most efficacious stimulant to the exercise 
of the virtues of reverence, sincerity, benevolence, com- 
passion, fortitude, and loving kindness, which were 
naturally active in him, and which kept his character in 
harmony with his creed. 

Let me add, that among his papers I find many indica- 
tions of a literary activity abruptly suspended ; notes and 
materials for a biography of Heinrich Heine ; notes for 
criticisms of books ; the commencement of a novel and a 
play ; and various unfinished lyrics. Also the scattered 
memoranda of some apparent excursions into physical 
science. For the first time he found himself in posses- 
sion of what appeared to be unlimited leisure to browse at 
will over every province of literature, to follow his curiosity 
into every department of study, and to indulge his fancy 
in every kind of literary experiment. And before the first 
blades cropped from this boundless field of intellectual 
nurture and enjoyment had been digested and assimilated, 
the life they were already enriching was stricken down 
and swept away. 

" So far from being impatient of his dreadful illness," 
says the sister who was then his constant companion, 
" he more than once told me that it had been good for 
him ; and he frequently expressed his gratitude to a 
doctor who had given him a very unfavourable opinion 



162 JULIAN FANE. 

of his case a year before, and been blamed for so doing by 
his friends. He said that the warning then received, 
had given him opportunities of thought for the future 
of his children, and for the retrospect of his own life ; 
which he was glad to have had before his bodily pain and 
weakness became excessive. He spoke much in connec- 
tion with the subject of his children (and especially his 
boy), about what he conceived to have been the mistakes 
and errors of his own life ; and it was in these conver- 
sations that his real nature appeared in its most perfect 
form. His strongest characteristic had ever been an 
intense love of, and reverence for, truth ; and an equal 
abhorrence of everything approaching to falsehood or 
deceit, which he regarded as the most inexcusable sin. 
He desired for his children a thorough veracity of 
character, and a reverence for the beauty of moral 
purity, far more than any intellectual gift or inherited 
talent. He used to tell me that the thing he envied and 
respected most in the world, was a perfectly pure moral 
sense, so strong as to make a man prefer death to com- 
promise between double motives. He instanced the 
character of one of his friends who, without any intel- 
ectual brilliancy, was conspicuously conscientious in the 
moral conduct of his life, as the model which he would 
most wish his children to emulate. He often, at this 
time, regretted what he thought to have been desultory 
in his own life, and dwelt with great earnestness on the 
importance of regular habits of work. He said he 
could wish that his son should be obliged to work for 
some definite object in life ; but that in any case he 
desired for him a profession. His love for and delight in 



HIS sister's recollections. 163 

his children was extreme. But, even in this, his natural 
unselfishness appeared. For, however much he might 
wish for their society, he was nervously fearful of inter- 
fering with any arrangements for their advantage. And 
he who had all his life been petted and adored by those 
about him, showed in his last illness a thoughtfulness for 
others, and an absence of selfishness which would, I 
believe, have astonished even those who knew him best. 
He continued nearly to the last (though so shut out from 
the world,) to take great interest in politics and public 
events. The principal topics of the moment were the 
Irish Land Bill and the Education Bill, every detail of 
which he followed with the deepest sympathy in their 
success. Tolerant as he was of all fair and honest 
criticism, nothing so intensely disgusted and exasperated 
him as the petty spite of party, and the miserable impu- 
tation of mean or selfish motives to public men in whose 
conduct his own impartial and generous judgment 
distinctly recognized a courageous rectitude of purpose. 
It was this feeling which so strongly enlisted his sym- 
pathies in the triumph of those two great measures." 

Generous indeed and gentle, high-minded and full- 
hearted, was this man's exquisite humanity, to the last 
hour of his visible presence in a world through which he 
had passed from childhood to maturity unhardened by 
that high temperature of pleasure and prosperity which 
so often indurates the heart as quickly as hot water 
indurates an egg. But the end of his earthly sojourn 
was now at hand. On the evening of the 12th of March, 
1870, his physical suffering was excessive. The follow- 
ing day was the birthday of his mother. That day had 

M 2 



164 JULIAN FANE. 

never yet dawned upon a deeper sorrow than it now 
reawakened in the soul of her he loved so well. For the 
first time in all the long course of their tender inter- 
course she could not look forward to that accustomed 
and treasured tribute of dedicated song wherewith her 
son had never yet failed to honour the advent of this 
day. Yet she found what she dared not, could not, 
anticipate. There lay upon her table, when she rose on 
that saddest of all her birthday anniversaries, a letter in 
the old beloved handwriting ; which, with a few simple 
utterances of devoted affection, contained the two follow- 
ing sonnets. They are the last words ever written by 
Julian Fane. But this golden chain of votive verse into 
w T hich from his earliest years he had woven, with 
religious devotion, the annual record of a lifelong 
affection, was not broken till life itself had left the hand 
that wrought it. 

AD MATREM. 

(London, March 13, 1870. 
i. 

When the vast heaven is dark with ominous clouds, 

That lower their glooinful faces to the earth ; 

When all things sweet and fair are cloak'd in shrouds, 

And dire calamity and care have birth ; 

When furious tempests strip the woodland green, 

And from bare boughs the hapless songsters sing ; 

YvTien Winter stalks, a spectre, on the scene, 

And breathes a blight on every living thing ; 

Then, when the spirit of man, by sickness tried, 

Half fears, half hopes, that Death be at his side, 

Outleaps the sun, and gives him life again. 

Mother, I clasp 'd Death ; but, seeing thy face, 
Leapt from his dark arms to thy dear embrace. 



DEATH. 165 



So, like a wanderer from the world of shades, 

Back to the firm earth, and familiar skies, 

Back to that light of love that never fades — 

The unbroken sunshine of thy blissful eyes, 

I come — to greet thee on this happy day 

That lets a fresh pearl on thy life appear ; 

That decks thy jewelTd age with fresh array, 

Of good deeds done within the circled year ; 

So art thou robed in majesty of grace, 

In regal purple of pure womanhood ; 

Throned in thy high pre-eminence of place ; 

Sceptred and crown'd, a very Queen of G-ood. 
Receive my blessing, perfect as thou art, 
Queen of all good, and sovereign of my heart. 

A few days before he died, his incessant suffering was 
somewhat relieved by the exhaustion growing out of its 
prolonged endurance. The natural hopefulness of his 
nature revived ; and he said to his mother, " I really 
believe I shall pull through— after all." He got up, 
dressed and shaved; and from that moment he passed 
his days upon his sofa, until the last but one, which 
found him too weak to leave his bed. Meanwhile, how- 
ever, all pain had ceased. He became drowsy, and 
dozed constantly. On the 18th of April (1870) he w T as 
apparently free from all suffering save that of extreme 
debility. Midnight came. He told his servant to remove 
the candle from before his eyes, saying that he wished to 
sleep. The room was darkened ; he turned softly to his 
rest ; and those that watched him withdrew into the 
next chamber in order not to disturb the sleeper. When 
shortly afterwards his brother re-entered from the adjoin- 



166 JULIAN FANE. 

ing room to see if he were yet asleep, he was lying quite 
still, with a deep smile upon his face. He seemed to be 
(and was) in a sweet sound slumber. It was the slumber 
of death. 

Thus painlessly, after long physical suffering, and 
without a struggle or a sigh, passed away from earth the 
soul of Julian Charles Henry Fane. It has left behind 
it, here below, no abiding monument of its beauty and 
its strength, save in the memories of those that knew 
him. Yet his short life was not in yain. It enriched 
the world with a realized and animated ideal of much 
that is rarest and most beautiful in human character ; 
and they who yet mourn the loss of all that departed 
with him from the lives once beautified and bettered by 
his own, will re-echo the language in which he himself 
has lamented a similar departure of loveliness from earth, 
when they recal to mind these lines of one of his earliest 
poems — 

" Ah, not the music of his voice alone, 
But his sweet melody of thought, which fed 
Our minds with perfect harmony, is flown ! " 



u js[ ever? '> ga j(i a writer in the Pall Mall Gazette, " did 
Julian Fane fail to make a friend of anyone who came 
within the sunshine of his refined and gentle nature." 

" There was in him," wrote Mr. Henry Eeeve to his 
sister, " something of that finer sense and feeling which 
marked him out as a being of another world, for whom 
this common life of ours is too coarse and too cold. 
Those who knew him will never forget the charm of his 
manners and conversation.' 3 



TRIBUTES TO HIS MEMORY. 167 

" Every one who knew him," says Sir Roderick 
Murchison, " felt keenly how much original talent there 
was in him, combined with the most engaging manners."' 

In a letter written shortly after the death of Julian 
Fane, Mr. Motley the historian, and late American 
Minister in England, says, " It will always be most 
delightful for me to remember the circumstances which 
brought me into close intimacy with Julian Fane during 
several years, and enabled me thoroughly to appreciate 
his refined and delicate nature, his graceful, poetic, and 
subtle intellect, and the singular and remarkable charm 
of manner which his great personal beauty so much 
enhanced. Besides the many literary and artistic tastes 
with which I had the pleasure of finding myself in warm 
sympathy with him, there were stronger ties between us 
which made his friendship especially dear to me. It 
happened to be a momentous epoch in the history of my 
country, at which patriotism became not a sentiment 
only, but a passion; and in which we found ourselves 
drawn very closely to those who shared our convictions 
and our faith. I never found anyone out of America 
more unwavering in his belief and sympathy, or more 
intelligent and appreciative as to the causes and progress 
of that great conflict, than he was." 

Laudatis laudari is the best order of merit; and these 
evidences of the impression made by Julian Fane upon 
men of intellect and heart, are so precious that I need 
not apologize for placing them on record On hearing 
of his death Lord Clarendon wrote to Lady Westmorland, 
li I feel as if one very near and dear to myself had passed 
away. God give you strength to bear the irreparable 



168 JULIAN FANE. 

loss of such a son, and such a man ! " Nor was it only 
in England that his loss was felt. "Wherever any 
portion of his life had been passed he left many 
mourners. In a very touching letter which it is 
impossible to read without a high appreciation of its 
writer's character, Her Majesty the present Queen of 
Prussia wrote to his mother, " Apres avoir connu ce fils, 
si distingue depuis son adolescence, et apres avoir pu 
juger de ce qu'il est devenu dans l'ecole de la vie, 
comment ne pas deplorer sa perte, a la fois penible pour 
sa famille et pour son pays ! " 

" From those who loved him," wrote Mr. Forster, "are 
gone the joy of such a presence as they will hardly again 
see here, the brilliancy and beauty of such intercourse as 
they can never hope to renew." 






APPENDIX. 



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THE END. 



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THE EISE OF OUE INDIAN EMPIEE : being a History of 

British India from its Origin till the Peace of 17»3. By LORD MAHON. 

LETTEES ON THE OEGANIZATION OF THE AEMY 
By LORD ELCHO, M.P. 



LIST OF POPULAR WORKS 



A MANUAL OF SCIENTIFIC INQUIRY FOR OFFICERS 

AND TRAVELLERS IN GENERAL. Bv Vakious Writers. Edited by 
REV. ROBERT MAIN. 

A NARRATIVE OF THE SIEGE OF KARS, and of the Six 

Months' Resistance by the Turkish Garrison under General Williams. With 
Travels and Adventures in Armenia, &c. By HUMPHREY SANDWITH, 
M.D. 

SKETCHES OF PERSIA. By SIR JOHN MALCOLM. 

THE WILD SPORTS AND NATURAL HISTORY OF THE 

HIGHLANDS. By CHARLES ST. JOHN. 

GATHERINGS FROM SPAIN. By RICHARD FORD. 

TRAVELS IN MEXICO AND THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS. 

By G. F. RUXTON. 

PORTUGAL AND GALLICIA ; with an Account of the 
SocrAL and Political state of the Basque Provinces. By LORD 
CARNARVON. 

A RESIDENCE AT SIERRA LEONE. Described from a 
Journal kept on the Spot, and Letters written to Friends at Home. By 
A LADY. 

THE REMAINS IN VERSE AND PROSE OF ARTHUR 

HENRY HALLAM. With Preface, Memoir, and Portrait. 

THE POETICAL WORKS OF BISHOP HEBER ; containing 

Palestine, Europe, the Red Sea, Hymns, &c. With Portrait. 

GLEANINGS IN NATURAL HISTORY. By EDWARD 

JESSE. With Woodcuts. 

THE REJECTED ADDRESSES; or, The New Theatrum 
Poetarum. By HORACE and JAMES SMITH. With Portrait and 
Woodcuts. 

CONSOLATIONS IN TRAVEL ; or, The Last Days of a Philoso- 
pher. By SIR HUMPHRY DAVY. With Woodcuts. 

SALMONIA; or, Days of Fly-fishing. By SIR HUMPHRY 
DAVY. With Woodcuts. 

THE INTELLECTUAL POWERS AND THE INVESTIGA- 
TION OF TRUTH. By JOHN ABERCROMBIE. 

SPECIMENS OF THE TABLE-TALK OF THE LATE 

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. With Portrait. 

PRACTICAL INSTRUCTIONS IN GARDENING, for every 

Month in the Year. By MRS. LOUDON. With Woodcuts. 

ESSAYS FROM 'THE TIMES/ Being Selections from the 
Literary Papers ' that have appeared in that Journal. By SAMUEL. 
PHILLIPS. With Portrait. 2 vols. 



PUBLISHED BY MR. MURRAY. 



HISTORY OF ENGLAND, from the First Invasion by the 

Romans, continued down to 1865. With Conversations at the end of each 
Chapter. By MRS. MARKHAM. With 100 Woodcuts. 

A SMALLER HISTORY OF ENGLAND. Edited by DR. WM, 

SMITH. With Woodcuts. 

A SMALLER HISTORY OF GREECE. Edited by DR. WM. 
SMITH. With Woodcuts. 

A SMALLER HISTORY OF ROME. Edited by DR. WM. 

SMITH. With Woodcuts. 

A SMALLER CLASSICAL MYTHOLOGY. With Translations 

from the Ancient Poets. Edited by DR. WM. SMITH. With Woodcuts. 

A SMALLER ANCIENT HISTORY, from the Earliest Times 
to the Conquest of Alexander the Great By PHILIP k SMITH. With 
Woodcuts. 

A SMALLER HISTORY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE, from 

the earliest period to the Georgian Era. Edited by DR. WM. SMITH. 

SPECIMENS OF THE CHIEF WRITERS IN ENGLISH 
LITERATURE. Chronologically arranged. Edited by DR. WM. SMITH. 

A SMALLER SCRIPTURE HISTORY OF THE OLD AND 

NEW TESTAMENT HISTORY. Edited by DR. WM. SMITH. With 
Woodcuts. 

A SMALLER MANUAL OF ANCIENT GEOGRAPHY^. By 

REV. W. L. BEVAX. With Woodcuts. 

Four Shillings. 

HISTORY" OF FRANCE, from the Conquest by the Gauls, con- 
tinued down to 1867. With Conversations at the end of each Chapter 
By MRS. MARKHAM. W r ith 70 Woodcuts. 

HISTORY OF GERMANY", from the Invasion of the Kingdom bv 

the Romans under Maries, continued do"\vn to 1S67. On the Plan of MRS 
MARKHAM. With 50 Woodcuts. 

SHALL AND WILL ; or, the Future Auxiliary Yerb. By SIR 
EDMUND HEAD. J 

Four Shillings and Sixpe?ice. 

CHILDREN OF THE LAKE. A Poem. By EDWARD 
SALLESBURY. 

A LADY'S DIARY OF THE SIEGE OF LUCKNOW. 

HOUSEHOLD SURGERY" ; or, Hints on Emergencies. Bv JOHN 
F. SOUTH. With Woodcuts. 



LIST OF POPULAR WORKS 



Five Shillings. H 

ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS ; Historical and Eomantic. 
Translated with Notes by J. G. LOCKHART. With Portrait and Illustra- 
tions. 

MISCELLANIES. By LOED BYEON. 2 vols. 

INTEODUCTIONS TO THE STUDY OF THE GEEEK 

CLASSIC POETS. By HENRY NELSON COLERIDGE. 

HYMNS IN PEOSE FOE CHILDEEN. ByMES. BAEBAULD. 

With 112 Illustrations. 

EECOLLECTIONS OF THE DBUSES, and some Notes on 
theib Religion. By LORD CARNARVON. 

THE OEIGIN OF LANGUAGE, BASED ON MODEEN EE- 

SEARCHES. By REV. F. W. FARRAR. 

MODEEN DOMESTIC COOKEEY. Founded on Principles of 
Economy and Practical Knowledge, and adapted for Private Families. 
With Woodcuts. 

DEAMAS AND PLAYS. By LOED BYEON. 2 vols. 

THE HOESE AND HIS EIDEE. By SIE FEANCIS HEAD. 

With Woodcuts. 

HANDBOOK OF FAMILIAE QUOTATIONS, chiefly from 

English Authors. 

THE CHACE— THE TUEF— AND THE EOAD. A Series of 

Popular Essays. By C. J. APPERLEY (Nimkod). With Portrait and 
Illustrations. 

AUNT IDA'S WALKS AND TALKS. A Story Book for 
Children. By A LADY. 

STOEIES FOE DAELINGS. A Book for Boys and Girls. With 
Illustrations. 

THE CHAEMED EOE. A Story Book for Young People. Illus- 
trated by OTTO SPECKTER. 

DON JUAN AND BEPPO. By LOED BYEON. 2 vols. 

LIFE IN THE LIGHT OF GOD'S WOED. By AECHBISHOP 

THOMSON, D.D. 

ATHENS AND ATTICA; Notes of a Tour. By BISHOP 
WORDSWORTH, D.D. With Illustrations. 

ANNALS OF THE WAES-XVIIIth CENTUEY, 1700-1799. 

Compiled from the most Authentic Sources. By SIR EDWARD OUST, D.C.L. 
With Maps. 5 vols. Post 8vo. 5s. each. 

ANNALS OF THE WAES — XIXth CENTUEY, 1800-15. 
Compiled from the most Authentic Sources. By SIR EDWARD CUST. 
4 vols. Fcap. 8vo. 5s. each. 

THE POEMS AND FEAGMENTS OF CATULLUS. Trans- 
lated in the metres of the original. By ROBINSON ELLIS, M.A. 

CONSTITUTIONAL PEOGEESS. By MONTAGU BUEEOWS. 

THE LOCAL TAXATION OF GEEAT BEITAIN AND 

IRELAND. By R. H. INGLIS PALGRAYE. 



PUBLISHED BY MR. MURRAY. 



Six Shillings. 

BENEDICITE ; or, THE SONG of the THREE CHILDREN. 

Being Illustrations of the Power, Beneficence, and Design manifested by 
the Creator in His Works. By DR. CHAPLIN CHILD. 

LIFE OF WILLIAM WILBERFORCE. By the BISHOP OF 

WINCHESTER. With Portrait. 
OLD DECCAN DAYS; or, HINDOO FAIRY LEGENDS 

current in Southern India. By M. FRERE. With Introduction by Sir 
Bartle Frere. With Illustrations. 

THE WILD GARDEN; or, Our Groves and Shrubberies 
made beautiful by the Naturalization of Hardy Exotic Plants. 
By WILLIAM ROBINSON. With Frontispiece. 

MISSIONARY TRAVELS AND RESEARCHES IN SOUTH 

AFRICA. By DaVID LIVINGSTONE, M.D. With Map and Illustrations. 

FIVE YEARS OF A HUNTER'S LIFE IN SOUTH AFRICA ; 

By GORDON CLTMMING. With Illustrations. 

THOUGHTS ON ANIMALCULES ; or, The Invisible World, as 
revealed by the Microscope. By GIDEON A. MAN TELL. With Plates. 

LIVES OF BRINDLEY AND THE EARLY ENGINEERS. 

By SAMUEL SMILES. With Woodcuts. 
LIFE OF TELFORD. With a History of Roads and Travelling 
in England. By SAMUEL SMILES. With Woodcuts. 

LIVES OF GEORGE AND ROBERT STEPHENSON. By 

SAMUEL SMILES. With Woodcuts. 

SELF-HELP. With Illustrations of Character and Conduct. By 
SAMUEL SMILES. 

CHARACTER. A Companion Volume to 'Self-Help/ By 
SAMUEL SMILES. 

A BOY'S VOYAGE ROUND THE WORLD; including a 
Residence in Victoria, and a Journey by Rail across North America. 
Edited by SAMUEL SMILES. With Illustrations. 

INDUSTRIAL BIOGRAPHY : Iron-workers and Toolmakers. A 

Sequel to ' Self-Help.' By SAMUEL SMILES. 

THE HUGUENOTS IN ENGLAND AND IRELAND : their 

Settlements, Churches, and Industries. By SAMUEL SMILES. 

WILD WALES ; its People, Language, and Scenery. With In- 
troductory Remarks. By GEORGE BORROW. 

A MANUAL OF ETHNOLOGY ; or, A Popular History of tho 
Races of the Old World. By CHARLES L. BRACE. 

Seven Shillings. 
JOURNALS OF A TOUR IN INDIA. By BISHOP HEBER. 

2 vols. 

ADVENTURES AMONG THE MARQUESAS AND SOUTH 

SEA ISLANDERS. By HERMAN MELVILLE. 2 vols. 

LIFE AND POETICAL WORKS OF REV. GEORGE 
CRAB BE. Edited by HIS SON. With Notes, Portrait, and Illustrations. 



10 LIST OF POPULAR WORKS 



Seven Shillings and Sixpence. 

THE ART OF TRAVEL ; or, Hints on the Shifts and Con- 
trivances available in Wild Countries. By FRANCIS G ALTON. With 
Woodcuts. 

VISITS TO THE MONASTERIES OF THE LEVANT. By 

HON". R. CURZON. With Illustrations. 

LETTERS FROM HIGH LATITUDES; an Account of a Yacht 

Voyage to Iceland, Jan Mayen, and Spitzbergen, &c. By LORD DUFFERXN. 

With Illustrations. 

BUBBLES FROM THE BRUNNEN OF NASSAU. By an 

Old Man (SIR FRANCIS HEAD). With Illustrations. 

NINEVEH AND ITS REMAINS ; a Narrative of an Expedition 
to Assyria in 1845-47. By A. H. LAYARD. With Illustrations. 

NINEVEH AND BABYLON ; a Narrative of a Second Expedi- 
tion to Assyria in 1 849-51. By A. H. LAYARD. With Illustrations. 

THREE YEARS' RESIDENCE IN ABYSSINIA, with Travels 

in that Countiy. By MANSFIELD PARKYNS. With Illustrations. 

FIVE YEARS IN DAMASCUS, with Teavels in Palmyka, 

Lebanon, and among the Giant Cities of Bashan and The Haiti* an. By 
REV. J. L. PORTER. With Illustrations. 

THE VOYAGE OF THE < FOX ' IN THE ARCTIC SEAS, 

and the Discovery of the Fate of Sir John Franklin and his Companions, 
By SIR LEOPOLD McCLINTOCK. With Illustrations. 

REMINISCENCES OF ATHENS AND THE MOREA, during 

Travels in Greece. By LORD CARNARVON. With Map. 

PEN AND PENCIL SKETCHES IN INDIA. By GENERAL 

MUNDY. With illustrations. 

PHILOSOPHY IN SPORT, MADE SCIENCE IN EARNEST ; 

or, The First Principles of Natural Philosophy explained by the Toys and 
Sports of Youth. By DR. PARIS. With Woodcuts. 

BLIND PEOPLE ; their Works and Ways. With Lives of some 
famous Blind Men. By REV. B. G. JOHNS. With Illustrations. 

HORACE: A New Edition of the Text. Edited by DEAN 
MILMAN. With 100 Woodcuts. 

THE BOOK OF THE CHURCH. By ROBERT SOUTHEY. 

A HANDBOOK FOR YOUNG PAINTERS. By C. R„ 

LESLIE, R.A. With 24 Illustrations. 

A GEOGRAPHICAL HANDBOOK OF FERNS, with Tables 

to show their Distribution. By K. M. LYELL. With a Frontispiece. 

THE STORY OF THE LIFE OF LORD BACON. By W. 

HEPWORTH DIXON. 

THE SUB-TROPICAL GARDEN ; or, BEAUTY OF FORM 

in the FLOWER GARDEN, with Illustrations of all the finer Plants used 
for this purpose. By W. ROBINSON, F.L.S. With Illustrations. 

THE CHOICE OF A DWELLING; a Practical Handbook of 

useful Information on all Points connected with Hiring, Buyiner, or Building 
a House. By GERVASE WHEELER. With Plans. 



PUBLISHED BY MR. MURRAY. 11 



A SMALLER DICTIONARY OF THE BIBLE ; Its Antiquities, 
Geography, Biography, and Natural History. By DR. WM. SMITH. With 
Maps and Illustrations. 

A SMALLER CLASSICAL DICTIONARY OF MYTHOLOGY, 

BIOGRAPHY, AND GEOGRAPHY. By DR. WM. SMITH. With 

200 Woodcuts. 

A SMALLER DICTIONARY OF GREEK AND ROMAN 

ANTIQUITIES. By DR. WM. SMITH. With 200 Woodcuts. 

A SMALLER LATIN - ENGLISH DICTIONARY. With a 

Dictionary of Proper Xames, and Tables of the Roman Calendar, Measures, 
Weights, and Moneys. By DR. WM. SMITH. 

A SMALLER ENGLISH-LATIN DICTIONARY. By DR. WM. 

SMITH. 

THE STUDENT'S HUME; An Epitome of the History of 

England. ByDAYIDHUME. Corrected and continued to 1S68. With 
Woodcuts.* 

THE STUDENTS EDITION OF HALLAM'S HISTORY OF 

ENGLAND. Edited by Dr.. Wm. Smith. 

THE STUDENT'S EDITION OF HALLAM'S MIDDLE 

AGES OF EUROPE. Edited by Dr. Wm. Smith. 

THE STUDENT'S HISTORY OF FRANCE. From the 

Earliest Times to the Establishment of the Second Empire, 1852. 
Wiih Woodcuts. : 

THE STUDENT'S HISTORY OF ROME. From the Earliest 

Times to the Establishment of the Empire. With Chapters on the 
History of Literature and Art. By DEAN LIDDELL. With Woodcuts. 

THE STUDENT'S GIBBON; An Epitome of the History of 
the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. By EDWARD GIBBON. 
With Woodcuts. 

THE STUDENTS HISTORY OF GREECE. From the 

Earliest Times to the Roman Conquest. With Chapters on the 
History of Literature and Art. By DR. WM. SMITH. With Woodcuts. 

THE STUDENT'S ANCIENT HISTORY OF THE EAST. 

From the Earliest Times to the Conquests of Alexander the Great, including 
Egypt, Assyria, Babvlonia, Media, Persia, Asia Minor, and Phoenicia, liy 
PHILIP SMITH, B."A. With Woodcuts. 

THE STUDENT'S OLD TESTAMENT HISTORY. From the 
Creation to the Return of the Jews from Captivity. With Maps and 
Woodcuts. 

THE STUDENT'S NEW TESTAMENT HISTORY. With an 

Introduction, containing the connection of the Old and INew Testaments. 
With Maps and Woodcuts. 

THE STUDENT'S MANUAL OF THE ENGLISH LAN- 
GUAGE. By GEORGE P. MARSH. Edited, with additional Chapters and 
Notes. 



12 LIST OF POPULAR WORKS. 



THE STUDENT'S MANUAL OF ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

By T. B. SHAW, M.A. Edited, with Notes and Illustrations. 

THE STUDENT'S SPECIMENS OF ENGLISH LITERA- 
TURE. Selected from the Best Writers. By THOS. B. SHAW, M.A. 
Edited, with Additions. 

THE STUDENT'S MANUAL OF ANCIENT GEOGRAPHY. 

By REV. W. L. BE7AN. With Woodcuts. 

THE STUDENT'S MANUAL OF MODERN GEOGRAPHY. 

Mathematical, Physical, and Descriptive. By REV. W. L. BEVAN. With 
Woodcuts. 

THE STUDENTS MANUAL OF MORAL PHILOSOPHY. 

With Quotations and References. By WILLIAM FLEMING, D.D. 

THE STUDENT'S BLACKSTONE. A Systematic Abridgment 

OF THE ENTIRE COMMENTARIES. By R. MALCOLM KERR, LL.D. 

A PRACTICAL HEBREW GRAMMAR. With the Hebrew 

text of Genesis i.-vi. and Psalms i.-vi., Grammatical Analysis and Vocabulary. 
By REV. STANLEY LEATHES. 



Nine Shillings. 

THE CONNECTION OF THE PHYSICAL SCIENCES. By 
MARY SOMERVILLE. With Woodcuts. 

PHYSICAL GEOGRAPHY. By MARY SOMERVILLE. 

Revised by H. W. Bates. With Portrait. 

THE STUDENT'S ELEMENTS OF GEOLOGY. By SIR 

CHARLES LYELL. With 600 Woodcuts. 

POETICAL WORKS OF LORD BYRON. With Notes, Illus- 
trations, and Portrait. 

LIFE OF LORD BYRON ; with his Letters and Journals. By 
THOMAS MOORE. With Portraits. 

ARCHBISHOP BECKET; A BIOGRAPHY. By CANON 

ROBERTSON, M.A. With Illustrations. 

PICTURES OF THE CHINESE, DRAWN BY THEMSELVES. 

Described by REV. R. H. COBBOLD. With 34 Illustrations. 

THE ENGLISH BATTLES AND SIEGES OF THE PENIN- 
SULAR WAR. By SIR WILLIAM NAPIER. With Portrait. 

THE YOUNG OFFICER'S COMPANION; or, Essays on 

Military Duties and Qualities : with Illustrations from History. By 
LORD DE ROS. 

BOG-BREAKING; the most Expeditious, Certain, and Easy 

Method, whether great Excellence or only Mediocrity be required. With 
a Few Hints for those who Love the Dog and the Gun. By GENERAL 
HUTCHINSON. With Woodcuts. 






LIST OF SCHOOL CLASSICS. 13 



SCHOOL BOOKS by DR. WILLIAM SMITH. 
PEINCIPIA LATINA, Part I. A First Latin Course. A 

Grammar, Delectus, and Exercise Book with Vocabularies. 13th Edition. 
3s. 6d. 

%* This Edition contains the Accidence arranged for the ' Public School Latin 
Primer.' 

PEINCIPIA LATINA, Part II. Latin Eeading Book. An 

Introduction to Ancient Mythology, Geography, Roman Antiquities, and 
History. With Notes and a Dictionary. 3s. 6d, 

PEINCIPIA LATINA, Part III. Latin Poetry. 1. Easy 

Hexameters and Pentameters. 2. Eclogaj Ovidiange. 3. Prosody and Metre. 
4. First Latin Verse Book. 3s. 6d. 

PEINCIPIA LATINA, Part IV. Latin Prose Composition. 

Rules of Syntax, with Examples, Explanations of Synonyms, and Exercises 
on the Syntax. 3s. 6ci. 

PEINCIPIA LATINA, Part V. Short Tales and Anecdotes 
from Ancient History, for Translation into Latin Prose. 3s. 

A LATIN-ENGLISH VOCABULAEY, with a Latin-English 
Dictionary to Phasdrus, Cornelius Nepos, and Caesar's • Gallic War.' 3s. 6d. 

THE STUDENTS LATIN GEAMMAE. By WM. SMITH, 

D.C.L., and THEOPH1LUS D. HALL. 6s. 

A SMALLEE LATIN GEAMMAE. Abridged from the above 

Work. 3s. 6d. 

INITIA GE^CA, Part I. A First Greek Course, containing 

Grammar, Delectus, Exercise Book, and Vocabularies. By DR. WM. SMITH. 
3s. 6i. 

INITIA GEiECA, Part II. A Beading Book ; containing short 

Tales, Anecdotes, Fables, Mythology, and Grecian History. With a Lexicon. 
3s. 6d. 

INITIA GB.ECA, Part III. Greek Prose Composition; con- 
taining the Rules of Syntax, with copious Examples and Exercises. 3s. 6d. 

THE STUDENT'S GEEEK GEAMMAE. By PEOFESSOE 

CURTIUS, and WM. SMITH, D.C.L. 6s. 

A SMALLEE GEEEK GEAMMAE. Abridged from the above 

Work. 3s. 6<Z. 



PEINCIPIA GE^ECA. A First Greek Course. A Grammar, 

Delectus, and Exercise Book, with Vocabularies. By H. E. HUTTOX, M.A. 
3s. 6d. 

MATTHIAS GEEEK GEAMMAE. Abridged by BLOM- 

F1ELD. Revised and enlarged, by E. S. Crooke, B.A. 4s. 

KING EDWAED VI.'S FIEST LATIN BOOK; including 

a Short Syntax and Prosody with an English Translation. 2s. 6d. 

KING EDWAED VI.'S LATIN GEAMMAE. 3s. 6d. 

ENGLISH NOTES FOE LATIN ELEGIACS; designed for 
Early Proficients in the Art of Latin Versification. By REV. W. OXENHAM. 
3s. Qd. 



14 LIST OF HANDBOOKS FOR TRAVELLERS. 



THE CONTINENT, &c. 

HANDBOOK— TRAVEL TALK, — English, French, German, 
and Italian. 3s. 6d. 

HANDBOOK —NOETH GEE MANY, Holland, Belgium, 

Prussia, and the Rhine to Switzerland. With Map and Plans. 125. 

HANDBOOK — SOUTH GEEMANY, The Tyrol, Bavaria, 
Austria, Salzburg, Stteia, Hungary, and The Danube, from Ulm to the 
Black Sea. "With Map and Plans. 12s. 

HANDBOOK — SWITZEELAND, The Alps op Sayoy and 
Piedmont. With Maps and Plans. 10s. 

HANDBOOK — FEANCE, Normandy, Brittany, The French 

Alps, Dauphtne, Provence, and the Pyrenees. With Maps. 12s. j ^ 

HANDBOOK— PAEIS AND ITS ENVIEONS. "With Map and 
Plans. 3s. Gd. 

*** Murray's Plan of Paris. 3s. 6d. 

HANDBOOK — COESICA AND SAEDINIA. With Map. 4s. 

HANDBOOK — SPAIN, Madrid, The Castiles, The Basque 
Provinces, Leon, The Asturias, Galicia, Estremadura, Andalusia, 
Ronda, Granada, Murcta, Valencia, Catalonia, Aragon, Navarre, 
The Balearic Islands, &c, &c. With Maps. 2 vols. 24s. 

HANDBOOK — POETUGAL, Lisbon, Porto, Cintra, Mafra, 

&c. With Map. 9s. 

HANDBOOK — NOETH ITALY, Piedmont, Nice, Lombardy, 
Venice, Parma, Modena, and Romagna. With Map and Plans. 12s. 

HANDBOOK — CENTEAL ITALY, Tuscany, Florence, Lucca, 
Umbria, The Marches, and the Patrimony of St. Peter. With Map. 
10s. 

HANDBOOK — ROME AND ITS ENVIEONS. With Map and 

Plans. 10s. 

HANDBOOK — SOUTH ITALY, Two Sicilies, Naples, Pompeii, 
Herculaneum, Vesuvius, Abruzzi, &c. With Map. 10s. 

HANDBOOK — SICILY, Palermo, Messina, Catania, Syracuse, 
Etna, and the Rulns of the Greek Temples. With Map. 12s. 

HANDBOOK — EGYPT, The Nile, Alexandria, Cairo, 
Thebes, and the Overland Route to India. With Map. 15s. 

HANDBOOK — GEE EC E, The Ionian Islands, Athens, 
Albania , Thessaly, and Macedonia. With Map. 



LIST OF HANDBOOKS FOR TRAVELLERS. 15 



HANDBOOK — CONSTANTINOPLE, Turkey in Asia, and 

THE BOSPHOKUS, PLAIN OF TROY, THE ISLANDS OF THE JE-GiEAN, CRETE, 

Cyprus, Smyrna, Eehesus and the Seven Churches, Coasts of the 
Black Sea, Armenia, Mesopotamia, &c. Maps and Plans. Po&t 8vo. 155. 

HANDBOOK — DENMARK, Norway, Sweden, and Iceland. 

With Map aud Plaus. 15s. 

HANDBOOK — RUSSIA, St. Petersburg, Moscow, Finland, &c. 

With Map. 155. 

HANDBOOK — INDIA, Bombay and Madras. Map. 2 vols. 

Post 8vo. 125. each. 

HANDBOOK — HOLY LAND, Syria, Palestine, Sinai, Edqu, 

and the Syrian Deserts. With Map. 2 vols. 24s. 



KNAPSACK GUIDES FOR TRAVELLERS. 
KNAPSACK GUIDE TO SWITZERLAND. With Plans. 5s. 
KNAPSACK GUIDE TO NORWAY. With Map. 6s. 
KNAPSACK GUIDE TO ITALY. With Plans. 6s. 
KNAPSACK GUIDE TO THE TYROL. With Plans. 6s. 



ENG LAND ,AND WALES. 



HANDBOOK — LONDON AS IT IS. With Map and Plans. 

3s. 6c?. 

HANDBOOK — ESSEX, CAMBRIDGE, SUFFOLK, AND 

NORFOLK — Chelmsford, Colchester, Maldon, Cambridge, Ely, New - 
market, Bury, Ipswich, Woodbridge, Felixstowe, Lowestoft, Norwich 
Yarmouth, Cromer, &c. With Maps and Plans. 12s. 

HANDBOOK — KENT AND SUSSEX — Canteebijey, Doyee, 
Ramsgate, Rochester, Chatham, Brighton, Chichester, Worthing, Has- 
tlngs, Lewes, Arundel. With Map. 10s. 

HANDBOOK — SURREY AND HANTS — Kingston, Ceotdon, 
Reigate, Guildford, Dorking, Boxhill, Winchester, Southampton, Ports- 
mouth, and The Isle of Wight. With Map. ios. 

HANDBOOK — BERKS, BUCKS, AND OXON — Windsor, 
Eton, Readlng, Aylesbury, Henley, Oxford, and tiie Thames. With 
Map. 



OCT -0 l- 



16 LIST OF HANDBOOKS FOR TRAVELLERS. 



HANDBOOK — WILTS, DORSET, AND SOMERSET — 

Salisbury, Chippenham, Weymouth, Sherborne, Wells, Bath, Bristol, 
Taunton, &c. With Map. 10s. 

HANDBOOK — DEVON AND C O RN WALL — Exeter, 

Ilfracombe, Linton, Sidmouth, Dawlish, Teignmouth, Plymouth, Devon- 
port, Torquay, Launceston, Penzance, Falmouth, The Lizard, Land's 
End, &c. With Map. 10s. 

HANDBOOK — GLOUCESTER, HEREFORD, AND 
WORCESTER — Cirencester, Cheltenham, Stroud, Tewkesbury, Leo- 
minster, Ross, Malvern, Kidderminster, Dudley, Bromsgrove, Evesham, 
With Map. 

HANDBOOK — NORTH W A L E S — Bangor, Carnarvon, 

Beaumaris, Snowdon, Conway, &c. With Map. 6s. 6d. 

HANDBOOK — SOUTH WALES - Monmouth, Carmarthen, 

Tenby, Swansea, and the Wye, &c. With Map. 75. 

HANDBOOK — DERBY, NOTTS, LEICESTER, AND 

STAFFORD — Matlock, Bakewell, Chatsworth, The Peak, Buxton, 
Hard wick, Dove Dale, Ashborne, Southwell, Mansfield, Retford, 
Burton, Belvoir, Melton Mowbray, Wolverhampton, Lichfield, 
Walsall, Tamworth. With Map. Is. 6d. 

HANDBOOK — SHROPSHIRE, CHESHIRE, AND LANCA- 
SHIRE — Shrewsbury, Ludlow, Bridgnorth, Oswestry, Chester, Crewe, 
Alderley, Stockport, Birkenhead, Warrington, Bury, Manchester, 
Liverpool, Burnley, Clttheroe, Bolton, Blackburn, Wigan, Preston, 
Rochdale, Lancaster, Southport, Blackpool, &c. With Map. 105. 

HANDBOOK — YORKSHIRE — Donoaster, Hull, Selby, 

Beverley, Scarborough, Whitby, Harrogate, Ripon, Leeds, Wakefield, 
Bradford, Halifax, Huddersfield, Sheffield. With Map. 12s. 

HANDBOOK — DURHAM AND NORTHUMBERLAND — 

Newcastle, Darlington, Bishop Auckland, Stockton, Hartlepool Sun- 
derland, Shields, Berwick, Tynemouth, Alnwick. With Map. 

HANDBOOK — WESTMORLAND AND CUMBERLA 

Lancaster, Furness Abbey, Ambleside, Kendal, Windermerf 
Keswick, Grasmere, Carlisle, Cockermouth, Penrith, App> 
Map. 6s. 

*** Murray's Map of the Lake District, 35. 6d. 

HANDBOOK — SCOTLAND — Edinburgh, Melrose, Kelso, 
Glasgow, Dumfries, Ayr, Stirling, Arran, The Clyde, Oban, Inverary, 
Jxxjh Lomond, Loch Katrine and Trosachs, Caledonian Canal, Inver- 
ness, Perth, Dundee, Aberdeen, Braemar, Skye, Caithness, Ross, and 
Sutherland. With Maps and Plans. 95. 

HANDBOOK — IRELAND— Dublin, Belfast, Donegal, Gal- 
way, Wexford, Cork, Limerick, Waterford, Killarney, Munster. 
With Map. 12s. 



JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET. 

londc 



London: printed by william clowes and sons, stamford street 
and charing cross. 



Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: April 2009 

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